Poetry Forum

Street lights go black,
and dark shower-heads
pour dandruff for a change
on the thick hobo faces
with their rain-dance shadows
and the torn ski-masks,
and the freezer-burnt fingers
in round bins of starved fire.

Guttural groans cut the night,
as the thermostats shatter
and the teeth of frostbite
stab as icicles.

For now the stars
can be seen
from downtown
skies don’t glow
in a homeless boy’s snow globe,
as he taps the weathered glass
with his knuckles,
shake his fist at the moon,
wishing it would sink.