September 24, 2022

I’ll go out into the winter garden of the city
with all of my jackets on and wait for the snow.

Neon signs will flicker across the street and I’ll
glance at a balcony twelve flights up beneath

the moon. You’ll whisper from the other side
of Sixth Avenue as Saturday night collapses

into Sunday morning. You’ll call it dawn.
I’ll call it the city slumbering across our apartment

sleepy-eyed with whiskey on its breath and smoke
in its lungs. No bother: coffee, shower, a four mile run ––––

we go again