156. hot, approached the alarum

iron a’s, all shop, are sneaking
underground, at least beneath the
sidewalk slabs, and real tall buildings
of this mid-west, meaty city

iron a’s are subway surfers,
claques of commune, beams and girders,
busted out from stocks above,
now they terror sewer slubs

they were known as east street truss,
toolbar joe and toaster gus
grooved the group of groundlings who
want to screw the downtown crew

downtown crew are soap, a solid,
stripped from facades, rock, or marble,
so, they snooted (slowly, sure)
and they suffered iron for

freaks they were, newfangled, narrow,
not the thing to hang veneer on,
once they’re out, exposed to weather,
they’ll just rust, and then what have ya?

the truss and slabs, as they were cast,
skirmish in the storm drains that
themselves have had their own small spat
with the hydrants and the lamps

the gang of gold, as they were known
(i’m pretty sure that is a joke),
took to spouting, from manholes,
steams of stuff, to let them know

when the streets, at last, are empty,
the lines upon them go all crazy,
and they point in strange directions
just to tease the corner shop-fronts

which have, simply, folded, rolled-up,
forced themselves into recesses,
except just when the street lights lamp,
then they lines electric snap

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