He works a job somewhere I think,
Though he doesn't talk about it.
They don't own him.

He wakes up at night.
The world that parents shut out with spacerocket curtains,
The one with single cars alone at stoplights
And amber shattered on dark wet asphalt,
Is his.

He looks great in neon.
The tide of white and watery blue from various backlit screens
Washes the scars of late-night fried chicken dependency
Away.

He knows where to go to see a film at 3 a.m.
And everything about electro.
And how can he walk the streets in a teeshirt at 3 a.m.?
Isn't he cold?
He's cool.

I saw him once in daylight.
We discussed the captaincies of Kirk and Picard
And sat right up against the window eating onion rings.
He looked tired the whole time
And the afternoon suited him
As badly as the tie around his neck.