Down Here

Snow falling through the raw bare branches like they’d had other plans. Inside, I mirror the mirror, chew the pillows, itch the itches, refuse to eat. Eat everything. Pray for the prayers. Find water, float, don't swim, drink the water that comes my way. I am a lesser man.

A day grinding its teeth, gnawing down to the flatlines. We scuttle down here in the nowayup. The world seen sideways. And there's a tango I've been meaning to learn but it won’t save me now.

Postcards

Someone ignorant of this city would spend too much time looking at you. Someone might say you have a mouth made for postcards.

Would miss the sweet humid espresso, the clink of clumsy Sunday cups and saucers at the Portuguese cafe clinging to the sea wall. Would want with hunger, with mouths that would miss the perfect salt of salmon and yellow lemons. Someone might miss everything.

Later, back where they came from, would describe to friends how rain furrowed your forehead and would overuse the phrase "you had to be there." Later, it's all about false idols and missed streets. I shouldn't like later so much.