XVI

Sometimes the streets gray concrete

creeps up on me.

The night begins to swim.

The moon like driftwood

bobs across the sky,

as my thoughts drift aimlessly to her.

Light she was like a fairy.

And her shoes the number nine.

Her hair, vodka blonde,

spilling over her shoulders.

An enticing smile that could stop a heart.

Now gone she is and there will be no other

just words hanging like a gallows rope