On a Fire Escape at a Party
Fingers callus, blister, bleed.
Reach your pinky to the next fret,
finish the contentious harmony.
Hail the chord,
let the meter tick up.
Hiding from the light of the television
on the grating of a fire escape.
Back alley, frozen night,
busking to the cats above and below.
Stay long enough
to watch the puddles ice over
and shatter under the eventual step
of the garbageman,
harking the cruel morning,
that unstoppable sun,
muting the sharp breath of night
with a monotonous warmth that
reduces man to shade,
ethereal and insubstantial.
No longer minding the bite,
strumming to drown out the aching buzz.
And you never want to go home.
