“Memories for sale”

the card proclaims
held up by the homeless man
in the amusement park.

“Sad ones are plentiful”
he tells me with a shy smile –
“No-one ever buys them, only
pessimists and starving poets;
the happy ones are rare

as golden pennies.”

These seagulls above the parking lot today
are made of second-hand
hurricanes and suns
with no names.
The sound of my heart breaking
is a silent scream
that ghosts the air;

trying to hold on to your shadow
I lose myself in the storm.