The last exit to Brooklyn

Under the elevated, the boys go still. Grease in the seams, hard weather, hard will. The room is a ledger; the body pays. Hunger learns the grammar of these streets at its own pace. The last exit to Brooklyn — no clean way home. No mercy in the pavement, no absolution in the bone. Bone-deep, alone. The last exit to Brooklyn. A dirty laugh, a chipped neon bloom. Want becomes law in a rented room. Every touch leaves a tax, every dream a stain. What you call a way out comes back as the same pain. Call it hunger. Call it living. Either way, the street is giving what it gave: heat, hurt, ruin, use. Not mercy, not rescue — just the street in you. The last exit to Brooklyn — no clean way home. No mercy in the pavement, no absolution in the bone. Bone-deep, alone. The last exit to Brooklyn. No way out. Only Brooklyn.