Blaring horns

Form melodies,

The familiar tune:

That of the night,

That of the rush.

The 3am toms

Prowl fire escapes;

The midnight tramps

Nod off in doorways.

Rising steam, lazily

Drifting from manholes,

Illuminated by

Leaves in hustlers’ flames.

Screams in alleyways,

Laughter in swarms:

A fine purée under awnings,

The fine highlights.

Piercing highlights,

Like blinding headlights,

Passing as patrol cars,

Turn ruckus to silence

            And night into day.