You smell of plastic And concrete And moisture. My gut tingles and the blood rushes to my head. I know I'm home. Or the furthest from it. And the pool is churning. It literally never stops. And it's intoxicating. I could drink tonight. I could get so fucked up that all of my racing thoughts would finally shut the hell up and make sense. Or just get ounces of peace. There are beautiful men. I see places I've been. I want to run into the night. Like a runaway dog. A dog on the run. All because your windows, on Your small streets. Your fucking smell. Always is. When it's good, It's so good. The ride home may only be a few stops, On the 3. But the personal space I get to witness, As people end their work days, Just wanting a cooler space, A cold drink, A smile, waiting On a friendly, familiar face. Is small, And quiet. Like small children sitting on a bench, After school. It's a beaut