She sits alone beneath the cross of Grace St. Luke’s and all the neon, rain drenched streets. She takes a picture in black and white, dreams of all the colors, smudged and running down her face. He came back down from Eastern Time, a pretty wife and everything that anyone could dream. The television flickers, casting shadows of all the grey that’s been wearing down his soul. And the colorbars scream It’s getting too late to fall asleep. She stumbles inside with the telephone line crying that the rain never stops. and the erstwhile smile that lit her face in a former life returns and calls his name. Huddled inside, ‘neath the ‘no smoking’ sign, strange and grinning out loud, wrings his hands. The cigarette burns as the sunlight paints daggers across his face and the moment fades. And the colorbars scream It’s getting too late to fall asleep One more murder on a Sixth Street serenade she dreams. He fashions a kiss from old scars and lullabies placing it on her silhouette, he cries. And back downstairs to the screen gone black as the colorbars scream that it’s finally time to sleep.