Well kept secret in neon

We lean like chef speak on the sidewalk
of our lives, watching through tint
the neat rows of dark skinned lines
that separate us from the world.
We are about to fly into the chromatic
glass life that hides behind us
but this beauty is only a metaphor
for why we don't go home.
It is night in the city & we are
looking for some soft shoulder
of a road to lie on.
This is not a premeditated accident.
This is just body finding
the safest place to hide.
We hold our laugh in the cup
of our throat like too much gin
but we are not drunk, not yet at least.
The night is a baby crawling
towards the fire escape &
we are the exiles in this neon city,
stoked with the fumes
of exhausted motorcades
& funeral hearses. We are happy
briefly here but we cannot go home.
Home is a door without knob &
the windows are blacked
like secrets. If you want to know,
it is true, we are the most well kept
of them all.