The smell of booze-bags and stale beer hovers in the air.
Broken glass on black pavement crack beneath warm boots,
Autumn begins to die in the wake of first snow.
But alive are you-
your heartbeat pounding against leather,
hands clasp together like you've mapped out a plan,
yet stuck in fleeting limbo.
Anticipation rings in the scene while the crowd sings mid-November Christmas carols.
Impatience flows from your mouth into ghostly puffs-
but thirty-two degrees numbs any further thoughts.
Icy flurries cut away at her armor,
But she doesn’t mind,
Lips are chapped, blue, and glued together.
She wonders at the possibilities, what could she say?
She fights against the gusts and a crowd of statues,
As forgotten words die with the trees.
Lonesome sober thoughts at my desk: scrutiny and Billy Joel,
self-searching for meaning through piano keys.
But, alas, I feel nothing at all.