After Midnight

Running up from the Marina
To Pacific Heights is grueling
But possible,
Getting past the closing night is not.

Words move beyond my reach,
I listen to my breath.
The lack of street lights
Suggest home and safety are not at hand

Shadows, broken and bending,
Create a feeling that someone is following
And I must move faster,
Or hide in my closet.

My course takes me through
A cardboard village
That fronts abandoned shops
Like a pre-Potemkin slum.

Fog speaks to me,
A tale of winter, sans snow,
That allows no respite,
Just the cold of the financially undressed.

Doorways crowded with the poor,
Who have formed temporary alliances
That might not last the night,
Bent on liquor induced Hollywood dreams.

Nearing my haven,
Shadows become familiar and safe.
Cold and fog recede.
My cheerful television makes the night certain.