The Borough of bourbon, brass, and old brasses
by Jonathan Beale

The city weighed heavy
With its drunken need
Corners allow the space to find

Pimps hang in the corners of grubby bars
running old Yanky cars
Living in cold basement flats

The Borough of Bourbon Brass and old Brasses’
The deep wooden liquid
Pull them along and along

The brass flickers
In-between the cigarette smoke
Neon and mirror
The jazz bars blow their brassy
To passing strangers

They sit in their anticipation
Of the needy next one
Bills don’t pay themselves

The morning sees an oik
Disinfecting doorways for a dime.

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