It's a
week after the young woman who looked similar to my mother at her age
(spit
glitters on the end of her ballpoint)
sat
opposite me in the cafe on the seventh floor
and I
started making an opaque commentary on the sky
which
she could see through
recluding
away with a glance
from
soft blue eyes hard not to fall for
The
wild beauty of entropy will make one or break one
a
whispering epic
of ravelling
and unravelling
I'm
waiting in a post office line
to
send tobacco to the rehabiliation centre
down
south
thinking
of the moon's mirrorballing of the sun at night
and
how it carpets my walk home from the work
along
with the stripped bones of fried chickens
haphazardly
flung to the ground in an act of blase voodoo
A man
gives the post officer an umbrella
a good
one he says
from
The Savoy
on a
day untarnished by rain
And my
Christmas cards remain unwritten
December's
malaise falling upon my heart
the melancholia synonymous with mistletoe
softly embracing it
softly embracing it
with
the gentle coldness of snow
The
day comes to a close
sooner
or later
with
the pedestrian symmetry of a black woman drinking a pint of stout
the
alcohol looking more dependent on her
than
she does on it
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