A violin howls,
and a stream of piss glitters in the moonlight.
Mr. Albrecht contemplates what phase the moon is in as he scratches his testicles
The tarmac bumps stick out like mountains through the gushes
as his foot taps on
the hot piss-slick pavement.
When I say hot I mean how the trumpet prickles
his skin like the humid Manhattan breeze.
When I say taps, I mean a piano is talking to him
through all this, but he doesn’t know how to answer