waiting in sweat soaked boxers at a yellow light
smile and nod, when i'm weak, i prefer to be polite
the sorrows of the streets run their wrinkled hands across my back
rising up to wrap themselves tightly around my neck

i've been stuck for years now in a shelter of productive peace
with light stabbings of critical glances from the overworked police
it's stunning how perspective can turn friends into enemies
and vice versa, depending on the person, and the inclinations of inner beasts