This way home

The staircase sang the song.The click clack of the old man's neck straightening to swallow supper and the mind falling down the boneless stairs in a rush.The foyer,the mother's womb where the arts practice what the arts preach.In its all too uncanny embrace of warmth the night sky glows like an ellipsoidal blanket torn in places where the skin of my hands touches its anguish of being homeless.The taxis race around,as if the windows punch inwards their irregularities in motion other than the half naked women pretending to sleep in the laps of men who can't get the ash off of their cigarettes.A draught bends along the curb sighted only by them whose reluctance in crossing to the other side is a window they wish to push themselves through to be untouchable.The gatekeepers wipe their frothy lips as i bite into mine.As calm as the idea of silence becoming an epidemic may sound i can hear the city give in.Podiums of greatness have been reserved for poets and painters who laugh symbolically as they think hard about the latest misnomers or find themselves shelved in every house,a place they will refuse to abandon for the rest of their lives. Listening with my soul in one place through the cracks of noise now ringing across my ears(of hearing myself breathe),streaks of light fall through denuding the many structures that shadow my first impressions,second of the tenacious women who scrub the sidestreet walls with their metallic heels having almost come to terms with their pace and need.Perhaps,that is just my perversity slipping through an open jar i conjured out of thin imagination.But wouldn't one be allowed the indulgence.Is this the way to treat a man who has just arrived himself.