2/5/09 Cold Night Run (Dec. '07)

running in the night
the beauty is the night
in the wind lashing about
(not back in ya)
slapping
your knees
your cheeks
your cheeks

hard slapping
on your knuckles
the tip of your nose
your ears sticking
out below the
bottom of a
hat already pulled
as far down
as it will go

hair pasted in a
postmodern
architectural
creation never
before seen
west of
Singapore

or, perhaps,
someplace more
exotic,
someplace like
New Orleans
where it's proper
to wear a
sleeve
on your head
at least it's
baby blue

Streetcars grind
and hum
and screech
and clang,
sometimes
shooting a
stacatto spark,
a short,

a long
blue arc
pops off the
wheels as they
trundle under the
mighty, ancient
live oaks
older than me,
older than we
will ever get
to be

or not to be
like that.

At least I'm
not cold.
It's cold
out here,
you know?