red-and-white polka dots
float, twirl and fade across the floor
like glimpses of apples
through the falling snow

we are good as friends
probably bad as lovers
but i want you still

looking in the mirror he thought
when he wore his checkered suit
he resembled an unfinished skyscraper.

after the disastrous meeting on the 61st floor
he skipped the elevator
and took the stairs all the way down
until he was huffing and puffing his way
onto the sidewalk.

he took off his gray checkered jacket
and let the rain sculpt his brow
and carve through his fingers.

thoughts grew lighter
with each slash of watery wind across his cheeks.

soaked on the curb,
he knew he must seem pathetic
to the sinking eyes of passersby,
but he was calm.

content to be
a soul

under construction.

midnights in the hidden smoking rooms
and reading lounges
tucked deep in the crevices of Manhattan

the distant honking of tuxedo cars
and shiny-clack footsteps
through scattered manhole steam
that swirls like silver pinwheels

all the soundtrack noise in my head
as i move across the silent room
everyone's eyes in their books

except ours

a pile of old tvs at the edge of a road
below a "dead end" sign

some upright
some sideways
some upside down

still tuned

through their cracked screens
and broken dials
and crooked antennas

to a red, white and blue test pattern

drowning in the leaves of summer
when past loves are like attic ghosts
conjured from blood and sunlight

air sticks to your tongue
and the moon rises late

then the night breeze blows in
and flutters the sheets
as you flow downstream

under the leaves

a walk in the colorless city
shadowed by charcoal clouds

a dahlia hangs over the sidewalk
loose petals tumble with the rain
littering scarlet spots
into the black-and-white air

as the feel of your fingertips
cascades softly through
   my memory