They're stringing up poets with the colored lights,
Harvesting all the smiley faces,
And passing out scripture with the red ration cards.
I'll wait tonight with the lights out
Before the twelfth floor window
Trying to spy your car in the traffic,
Blurred yellow twins
Shooting in halting straight streaks
To the building where we live.
During lonely dark hours when you miss the ferry,
I can hear the woman upstairs
Crying over her tiled floor,
Through my starless drywall heaven.
The coffeemaker in the morning
Awakes me with the same soft invocation of the day,
A gentle digital profession of hope.
The white plastic arm chairs
Embracing me coolly as I gather my senses,
The sun always rises behind our tower.
The light simply slowly eases on outside
As sharp tall shadows grow, pivot, and fade away.
The snow never lasts a day
Over the clean steaming gratings.
I bundle tightly in black layers,
Abandoning myself to the hissing slide doors
And surrendering to the brittle city street.