On the other side of the crapped up glass
            outside the club,
            night insists, goes on, fights hard.
Yellow cabs dart, flash, bombard glass sheet to glass sheet,
            cigarettes arc down to the wet gutters and the streets. 

And inside,
            crapped out tables,
            crap beer,
a heart breaking like an egg,
            again, again.
And a lady,
            beat on by a piano and drums,
tells that crap room
            what it means to live a life
            brightened only by the light off their crap drinks. 

And from just behind,
            the arrows of yellow cabs
            shoot back and forth through her heart,
            shoot all the time she is singing,
            and the cigarettes, out through the glass,
            seem aimed right at her feet. 

From table to table,
            more heartbreak to match hers,
but she is the only one singing there,
            there, with the outside looking in.

Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California in a century old house between Golden Gate Park and the Pacific Ocean. His writing has appeared in numerous literary journals. In addition, he has just launched a poetry collection called "In Spite Of Contagion: 65 COVID- 19 Poems."