past 6 pm
and the buildings
begin to shed weight.
stuffed egos,
adipose and cellulite
whisk themselves
into german cars,
and bavarian comforts.
soon, most
of the concrete
and chrome armor
of the business district
lie empty.
lifeless shells of great beasts
that molted at sundown.
in a small corner
huddled over a battered
silver apple,
one lone man
bashes letters
into a virtual sheet
of hungry white.
fiddling over
racks of analogies
and shelves of phrases.
he peers intently
into the screen,
his mind sending
little elves
to pick and choose
the best from
the lush orchard
growing in the depths
of his tropical mind.
will the harvest
be plentiful
as he expects?
or would the elves
drink from their
truant bottles of rum
and play havoc with
the bounty?
as he ponders
over the
many possibilities,
cohen’s whisky laden
hallelujah waltzes
with the wispy
smoke snaking
up from his fuming
unattended cigarette,
and he leans
back into leather.
from the open window
framing the dissolving
day into pitch black,
a slender breeze
spawned far away
in the cold mountains
strokes her lingering
lacy fingers over his
unkempt beard.
he inhales
her lightness,
and in her touch,
he distinctly
identifies fragrances
robbed from
the foothills,
the plains, the rivers,
the jungles,
and one lonely
widowed scent
of a lady
scheming to poison
her lover.
the evening is getting
all heady in my fingers.
