Howard to Grand

New York in the Chicago fog
towering and teetering on the brink of bad decisions
the haze in the morning is the noncommittal landscape of tomorrow
I make eyes and she makes away with those golden locks of hair
some days it doesn’t pay to do the job
others, it just doesn’t pay enough
my intentions are lies because I’d be in bed right now if I could get the sorts of benefits they dream of in Russian Bride magazines
if it’s seven in the morning here, then it’s seven in the morning anywhere in this world that matters at all
even on her slithering and seething eyelids
closed to me
and by the time she awakes I will have passed from being a dream to being a thing she can touch