Not a Smoker.

Walking quick away from the comforts of potential conversation
Lights flashing and loud music
The fireworks crackling from the baseball game just over the ridge
And a drunk asking for money from the busker with the fly-away tie
I wonder if he gives him anything
Both pan-handling but one working
And is he working?
And what the hell is legitimate work anyway?
I walk faster because I am regretting leaving
But broke and embarrassed and even though I am one never felt like I belonged with other artists.

I move into the road to avoid the businessmen cackling outside the Spanish restaurant and avert my eyes from the girl in the short skirt who is obviously intoxicated and arguing with her equally intoxicated boyfriend.

I love the city
And I know people think of it as kind of a small town
But those people haven't ever lived in a real small town, I think.
And I wish I smoked cigarettes
So I'd have something to hold when I can't think of words.