The rain slicked the streets
of Albany last night
as we were stealing home
up Central Avenue.
The Continental Fried
stared quietly toward the Northwest;
its flat neon lights
had been extinguished for hours.
We were free and radical,
separating and bumping into
each other while the atom
of our collective intoxication decayed.
From hours away, this
is all I see: a lonely building
allowing itself a little sentimentality.
Let's take it with us next time.