From "Iron Angels"
by Geoff Landis.

Open Mike at the Neon Cup

Tires ripping across wet asphalt
tear like paper across the neon city night.
Through the window,
luminous rivers orange and blue
streak the pavement, going nowhere
distorted by footsteps
as hurrying people hunch over against the rain.

Behind the neon coffee-cup,
the door propped open with a chair,
swirls of night cool cut through hot smoky air
like sudden mouthfuls of lemon. 
Track lighting and cream walls and a single poet, 
back to the flickering neon darkness, 
recites awkward words in an jerky stutter 
barely louder than the rip of wheels on wet asphalt 
the undecipherable poetry of cars.