On the corner of Sixth,
the stars and sky turn simple,
white bits in a lot of black,
in the time it takes to look at them.
It’s hard work
forgetting your place in the solar system
just to listen in
on a conversation
where everyone involved
is tired, maybe hungry,
a little too nice,
—which is mean, where I’m from—
slipping a laugh in
every now-and-again
so they don’t have to listen
to their walking
or the traffic,
which is worse than listening to silence.
They aren’t friends, after all.
You can tell by their clothes,
and the distance between their breaths
taking shape in the cold air—
white crests,
themselves breaking apart,
giving the OPEN sign
in the restaurant window
its soft, almost-pink red.
Can’t I be the last one
to make footsteps on the snow?
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