The Village

It’s snowing out and so I duck in to
this café of enormous glass and refuge,

it’s counterpart to the world, walking arm
in arm with the murderous and abandoned,

ask for spare change, for beer, a cigarette.
I stir a spoon of brightness in my coffee.

No other religion is as filled with beautiful
women as is the closed eye of my cup.

Or isolated by bars where hands press the four
walls for a crack, recess of smooth

enough for fingers to add up the crease
of falling snow. I feel really bad

for the frozen contents of the snow
covered garbage bags, the melting

sweat of the dumpster. My hot cup, glass
my new world with no writing home.

I feel like a telephone of sorts where I
can reach out but don’t really have to respond.