Plot a course through downtown doors
then drift along the concrete shores
of asphalt oceans navigated
broken curbside glass--
over crunching gravel miles
measured in half-hours
and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths
and squinting, midnight eyes...
Counted out the blocks, counted steps
and concrete squares by metered
three-four thoughts dancing across
reflected skylines, just behind the eyes.
Each step's a held breath,
each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper,
each set of shoulders, a hanger for...
coats are homes
rolling up in pockets
fishing for some solid anchor,
sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.
* * *
Listing hard, adrift for years
water-logged and pocked--
shredded sails and leaning masts
of deck fires:
and charred strakes
this coat's Atlantic fog.
Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch
down and across
like lines on faces aged by the frost
on midnight walks.
Strike the colors, mate...
Admit you're lost.
Was worried this one might seem a little...overbearing? Melodramatic? I kinda like how it turned out, though.