The pigeons of Roppongi Crossing, looking for a scrap, cluster near the night ladies of Roppongi Crossing scurrying to find the remains of the night.
Cell phones as alarm clocks in the smoking chamber of McDonald’s. Closed eyes, red faces and gold chains. Memories on snooze about the night before.
Old women, on hands and knees, scrubbing filth and stories from the grit of the sidewalk. Heads on pavement. Bodies in doorways. All waiting for the old woman to wash them away like ghosts before the light.
Buy an orange juice.
Buy some fireworks.
Straight lines on club shirts. Collars displayed, across rigid cross walks, a collision of bodies and heavy footed yellow taxis looking to scoop the final yen payouts of the evaporating night.
Have a sip of orange juice. None of this involves you.
Read the morning tweets from your mobile device and take pause to read the broken English of the graphic T’s that pass.
Yellow cabs. Black cabs. And some green ones.
Have a croissant.
Have a hologram.
Apes with men bodies, squeezing dignity from girls in wispy dresses.
Dump trucks, grabbing muscly foreigners to take them away. But they don’t go. But keep clinging to fake tan women who throw purses and not compliments.
The man with white gloves, a driver of mafia.
Fake eyelashes, real gold medallions. Dance class and soccer practice.
Everything at once.
Street scenes, cast in full shadow, before the gaze of the newly rising sun. The land of tipsy, falling bodies and a million suns. All for sale. Available in any color you’d like.
A drowsy woman in a blue dress stops to insult the pigeons of the Crossing. Old women scurry to avoid porcupine haired young gangsters.
Beware of the blue dump truck. It takes bags, bottles and clingy women who have thrown their purses. Full jump suits, under the watchful eye of Tokyo Tower. The great Eye sees all.
And it sees it all, every night. The Golden Arches nod. They are lovin’ it.