green lights,
green tea
pinwheels of refraction
a barker to the winter air,
on the Santa Monica pier
hushed by the reflection
of the surf below.
holiday tinsel trash.
a gold bow grows
from the sidewalk,
where we once laid
shoulder to shoulder,
just to show passers-by
that we didn’t notice
due to love.
your misplaced repentance
my salacious banter
late promises,
late spring
now in the crisp air
I have known you long enough
for the texture of your skin to change,
for my anger to lose its boyhood.
I pluck this bloom up.
smile at my foolishness
still waiting for you.
hum a Russian sounding melody
which curves the dancing lights
toward Beverly and Kensington,
toward you
my odd home.

© Tom Watters 1/28/10