I’ve already exhausted my heat source.
There’s not much left to take of me.
I wonder when he will disappear,
turn ‘round the corner and never return.
He’ll ask for a dollar, and I’ll give him a dime.
I found it in my pocket, maybe on the ground.
I can’t remember, honestly, does it even matter now?

This is an attempt to hold on, to grip the edges of the rope
pulling up the plank bridge we stand on.
Is this love or is this war, or
am I just making it a bit of both?
The birds want to stay and make a nest,
but their feathers keep shedding in this cold.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t home,
so they fly south for the winter.
Is it Christmas in July, I wonder?

I’ll sit in familiar coffee shops and write
bad poetry while I nibble at chicken salad and fries.
The barista wears blue overalls and white,
and he smiles, oh he smiles, every time I walk by.
Two hippies sip iced drinks outside, framed by the window,
wearing ombre skirts, edges dancing on the ground, and
silver rings on every finger—turquoise, or birth stones perhaps
in the middle. And they muse about thousands of little things
that they will accomplish. Their babies will wander
in every world, no fear diminishing their travels.
Is it too late to grow young with the new age dreamers?

I find myself craving a cigarette, though I can’t remember
the last one I let dribble smoke down my throat.
A black and white scene, picturesque, so free,
standing on the street corner, any one, with relief wrapped in
thin little paper, tucked between *******, and kissing my lips,
the only lover I’ll never miss.
Replacing one bad path with another was ill-advised, I’ll admit,
but the flower blooming so early was too beautiful of a sight.
I think I see snow falling already in the street,
and we’re on the cusp of August, is it time to say goodbye?