The Refusal of The Stars to Call Down Angels

A fat, broken down old man I am,
out at this cold and godless hour
walking my snow white wolf-dog
because my home, my room,
had become torture, brokenness,
The Devil never quiet or letting me be.
A week, I’ve stopped craving cigarettes,
but still too much booze, in fact, I swig
from my hip flask, potent Russian Spirits,
and feel a deceptive warmth, rushed stillness,
a giddy dream from burning tomorrow,
burning the morning when I could be useful.
A young woman, maybe 19, short brown hair
and a milk pale face, blue eyes as deep and pure
as an ocean I saw once, with a young woman,
maybe 19, who loved me, took me beneath waves
and laid kisses and passion upon me, and I have
worshipped her memory evermore, evermore.
A young woman, she looks up at me, lights up,
ecstatic and running towards me, it’s the wolf-dog,
who is jumping in place and shaking her head, howling,
as the young woman crouches before her, shakes her fur,
and makes baby voices at her, and my wolf-hound
licks her face, nuzzles her face, is in love forever.
“Such a sweetie!” the young woman exclaims,
“Such silky fur! Such a good girl!”
And I watch them together, wishing love was so
easy for me to show, to give, to be carless with it
and throw it around like confetti on New Years Eve
or candies on Halloween, which past, and it is cold.
“Thank you!” I say, take a swig of Russian Spirits,
as the young woman stands up and offers her hands.
I take it and we shake, and her palm is soft and warm
and enveloping and has never known a days hard work,
and I am jealous and sad for her, and still feeling stirrings
of love and reverence, even though I am old and left behind.
The young woman blows my wolf-hound a kiss, smiles at me
and waves goodbye, and hurries back to her friends who are
boisterous and laughing and doubtlessly heading to mischief
and shenningans and things that will either shine in the stars
or burn their flesh and dreams forever after the morning.
I watch the young woman and her friends move on, gone.
My wolf-dog lays down, head on her paws, whimpering.
More Russian Spirits, more defeated prayers, more solace
in Winter Cold and refusal of the stars to call down angels
and my wolf-dog, like me, falls so easily, so perfectly,
for kindness and enthusiasam, and a touch giving kindly,
even though they hurry on to something better, something brighter.
There will be no sleep tonight. There will be no peace. Wolf-dog will be at my feet.
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