Winter, fat snowflakes, on a downtown street.
I see young girls who’ve happy friends to meet.
I’ve become the lost angel who must disbelieve.
I know everyone moves on and will always leave.
An old movie, a sentimental one that’s hates banks.
I could go in and watch, know every suicide ranks
in the hearts of their friends and loved ones, tonight.
My face is flushed, blushing, my stiff knuckles white.
I could walk on, to the hills, to the end of the world.
I could go to a dance hall, women romanced, twirled.
I might stop at the market, get smokes, though I quit.
I could anger God with scribbled blasphemous writ.
The public library closed for the night, I walk the park.
A girl kissed me when I was sixteen, left her hot mark.
Dead of winter, the fountain is off, but the snow is still.
I think of love, and curse all hope, as any debtor will.