Gliding across the hardwood
with band-aids on both ankles,
bare feet collect summer sand and cigarette ash,
a season gone with declining health.

Sliding into frame with street worn soles,
cracked leather and cobbled heels.
Your height is a deception,
your heart, harder to read.

Burrowed in blankets,
the unbearable bleakness,
frost slowly creeps across the window
only to recede when the sun decides to shine.

All the young Allenites with their surrogate Keatons
clog the streets this time of year,
smoking pipes without a hint of irony,
but making me jealous all the same.

The eternal longing
blooming, while the trees
slowly shed their sullen bounty,
a harvest now past due.

A brief marvel at the array
a muted, warm spectrum;
people always ignore the leaves
once they’ve fallen.

They’ve gone,
sentenced to black trash bags
and the joyful stomps of those little nightmares
called children, who won’t let me sleep past ten.

Pale light and a quick breeze,
swept up by the indifferently romantic,
the urge to call home
to a love more tangible.