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