Devonshire Street

devil down the sidewalk strip
moonlight black-out wandering

Devonshire Street calls
from a broken payphone
with the midnight mass waiting
for the door to close,
and everything goes hush

the ringing stops and that black
dead phone stares unabridged
through the drapes of diamond rain

silence like a broken filament

and then,

the drums down Devonshire open
wide their thundering road beat,
their sermon of murder and homonymy,
their flag waving and flagellants,
their yellow-striped god miracle of
yearning animal fire and nickel-stained
dynamite, shocking all our dreams
into a euphoric blaze of organ smoke,
stubbing out only when that one
light clicks on, that lone
street-corner lamp

a filament reborn
down the sidewalk strip
the trembling hum of a flame in the night
holding steady down Devonshire Street

midnight mass will now let out,
and to where will they find themselves next?
soon, perhaps, it will be
too late to guess or hope or even see

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About James H Duncan

James H Duncan is a New York native and the editor of Hobo Camp Review. He is currently engaged to his Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter, but admits to ravenous affairs with various bottles of wine on the side. If you see him minding his own damn business at a railway platform, that's called research, so leave more be. Apt, Reed Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, and The Battered Suitcase, among others, have welcomed his poetry and short stories. More at
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