Where are those nights
when we picked our teeth with
stars,
when New York clinked like
champagne glasses
and San Francisco held epiphanies
in flesh?
I’ve had to catalogue my days in
even numbers
for strangers who never seemed to
notice
the sum always came out odd.
And I glued defensive postures
to hold my shoulders up.
The promises we made ourselves
turned sour or fell from grace or
were
just too damned hard.
Sometimes simply walking
took all the energy I had.
You can
weigh the money and production,
put the babies on the scales, but
the scars
are the only magic left in town.
