The Heart of Saturday Night

A cold knife of wind

Stirs and swirls through the naked streets.

Concrete trees, misplaced and mismatched,

Line the way.

The stars like Pixie Sticks

Spilled on the kitchen table.

We are all prisoners caught in the streetlights,

Looking for an escape.

We found the heart of Saturday night

Hemorrhaging light over the sidewalk.

Another soft gust of wind,

Cold fingers extinguishing your fire-red hair.

 The evening became too heavy

So we sank into a corner booth.

Words drift like cigarette smoke

Against the lazy yellow haze of light.

Spilled thoughts and beer and bodies fall back into the night,

As a broken headlight of a moon navigates our way home.