The moon shines a spotlight
Across the boulevard that seats
Our concrete-slab sidewalk
All cracked of the retirement scooters
And rough kicks of the skater kids.
We cannot afford the expensive theatre
On the blinking-lit side strip
So we fumble with our note-booked knees,
And the nearly-empty pen
You’ve given to me.
Night birds play the role of specters
A chorus of C chords between
The damp-chaired seats of apple trees,
You fumbling with your bic lighter
And cheap cigarettes, all Jack Kerouac
To the lonesome crows of my Sylvia Plath.
We are a sight for mascaraed tears and
A puppy-love kind of demise;
Alone, together, we love each other
The way the liver loves alcohol,
The way the whore loves
The strange voice of her client,
Or the way mapped city streets love
The gray, washed out graffiti
Of homeless artists and stop-light thugs,
Or something in the way
The 2am night scrawls of my heart
love the hugging metal rib of
your breast pockets pen.