Dec 2016

And in the break between bands
she gives pause to fleeting figments,
train reactions and reenactments
that wind down her narrows of suppose
while her date speaks bourgeois
through a slanted smile that when loosened
hangs like some broken sign.
For the virtue of eyes
that sometimes doubt the existence of her dreams
she salutes to the old school, grateful
for the punches of truth from an inherent nose
that can smell the scent of a crowd
And for how their looking for meaning
would always have been a search
for a similarly, lost melody.
Such streams of quirky solitude
where she runs, for pleasure;
tending toward joy across a hand brake
of drunken, goodnight kisses.

(''a modicum of discord is the very spice of courting'' Nicolas Chamfort)