I taste the snow on your elbows.
I love your Russian eyebrows.
I want you to play the piano, now!
My musicians sit on the curb
by the 7-11. A dark figure
strolls by under a street lamp.
A woman runs away from me
but I sit down by the security monitor.
The telephone stinks of perfume.
It is dusk. The red van
rattles into the parking lot.
I have no credit cards.
I can still win it in the waning seconds:
It is a luxury to draw the breath of life.