Friday night
by JB Mulligan


The feral male, urban, nocturnal,
scavenging the bars and taverns,
sniffing the air, ears erect,
a growl in the throat
just before
he tells her the joke.

In the racket of lights,
music and laughter, he
shouts to be heard.
She nods and wonders.

They pass into the dawn,
the nipple of the sun
in an irritated sky
blinds them. "Change?"

He blinks, and drops a quarter
in the cardboard box
of the homeless man,
who giggles as he
watches them stagger
to the subway on the corner.

They hold hands and snore,
and the rattle of the train
is furniture shattering.






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