from a park bench
(after John Haines' If the Owl Calls Again)

at dusk
from the hotel coffee shop
where the coffee has grown cold,

I'll wait for the waitress
to return,
then take deliberate steps
to meet no one.

We will not acknowledge each other's presence
but with newspapers shielding the frost
share a nod across
an empty bus station, blind
with empty expressions.

Then we'll lean against newspaper stands
in the middle of smoky sidewalks
and suck the marrow of bones
of helpless pigeons,

While the slighted moon hobbles
en route to Asia
and the taxis cough
on the road to anywhere.

And when the morning scales
the skyscrapers
we'll move on,

dejected, earthbound
lifeless as
the cold city persists.

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