Jangles of glassware, in the hearth is a pod
of pale periwinkle, mauve, diamonds of cigarette ends
flare like sparks in the dimness.

And from here, outside, I see a man and woman laughing.
Clinking their smartphones like beer mugs,
crossing their hearts and hoping
not to die old.

I count three more persons who might want to join the 27 club.
They crane their necks over dreams
and speak to their muses with sloped eyes and nods.

This antique chair I sit in is so worn
I feel I may fall through the center.
So I

sip my chai, write this poem, carry on.

Billy Collins is a thin window that cuts the night.
And that fountain outside, spraying lullabies,
children run over a chessboard the size of my first apartment,
kicking the plastic King like a soccer ball.

First published on Poet’s Corner November 30th, 2016