For those who have no calling,
how does one spend the time?
Is my today
just a groove for my tomorrow?
There are books piled on my bed
that I will never read.
I cannot say my flesh
was ever sad.
The sandwich girl at Arnold’s
dreams of cosmetology,
slices of rye
like steps to the Adriatic.
One needs to be cold a long time
to give up on the rapture.
Lovers meet on a wharf.
For a day or two they shine like phosphorous.
It does not take a mind of winter
to figure out the exits.
Your hand touches my shoulder
and I feel it on my thigh.
Tomorrow you will take a bus
to those hat towns in the West,
and I will read another book
on symbolism.
We know the chill of a city street
by the way a woman’s hands
shrink back in her sleeves,
her arms cocked a little at the elbows.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
