"From a series of bad parking jobs,
I can still see the snow swirl,
like portals festooned with gas lamps.
Dimmer than I remember, of course,
but they are persnickety things."
This sounded authentic, and I believed in you,
and all the kernels we'd share in common,
lost in the grip of a more shadowy junket.
You had been shamelessly concentric
by the pier, flirting every which way
with the stevedores.
Though no one stopped to ask your name.
"What do they know about the true
experience of living? They aren't even
real blondes."
We split a fevered white wine on the steps.
your pants had seen better days,
but for the price of a lemonade & sausage,
I'd be forever in your debt.
I would always turn to you and your enticing
approximations of attic-life.
"This could be exquisite. Feel free
to look me up at any hour,
and I will always make time for you.
Though how am I to become a celebrated
anachronism, if you keep talking to me?"
Nightbirds were leaving us, slowly,
disappearing to a portion of sky
that has yet to be seriously considered.