How quickly the night grows old.
Like sitting with a bitter at the bar
only to realize they're shutting the pool
table after a few sips. Or how the sky
wisps darker after the assassin's wept
his final gun-song in the movies. Credits
rolled out from your visa after a good
sing on life with the cabbie. What did he
say, you ask, leaving a blank where a
status should have been. (Kudos to the guy
who returned your dropped wallet - but
he's gone now.) Back home, the kitchen stove
stutters to blue life; the noodles tastes
of several long nights thrown together.
If only it were ramen, you muse, slurping
the mess down with half-hearted milo.
If only someone's hands could knead
magic, pat the dough of lives together
the way egg melts on a quilt of leavened
flour, beside a window where the lonely
room pulses against a universe of lights.
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