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Poem

Sometimes,
I catch glimpses of the future.
It’s never very bright.

Well, that’s alright
Because on cold winter nights 
Any warmth is welcome to greedy fingertips.

It comes from the fire-tender.
She calls me to the feeble light,
Calls me darling,
Lets me warm my cold, cold hands 
above the weak licks of warmth
And so, I am content.

But sometimes, she’s cruel
And now her embers
Leave sad burns on my arms
And in her domineering rage,
She crushes the tiny orb of warmth and home
And it hurts.
I am content.

I wear her clothes.
Her wine flows in me; I reek of her.
I own only what she gives. 
A bottle of bleach, a skinning knife
Will not cleanse me of her grime.
I am content.

The moon, a lonely curator,
Shone his flashlight over empty windows
Shied away from dark doorways
For guards fear what they guard
But thieves and bastards don’t
Because we own nothing and therefore lose nothing. 

I crouched in an alley, naked 
and bruised and hollow and content.
The bliss of independence, as it were.
But it was not to be-
It is not to be-
Because she finds me every time

Lowers her hood
And reminds me, 
I am not alone
I don’t have to be alone
I will never be alone.
No, I look too much like her, goddammit.

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