A City In January

Call girls wait, frozen in leaky phone boxes.

Homeless wait, leaking in frozen doorways.

ATM’S wait, too, 

Sporting cold, thin metal lips that wish to feed

Upon frozen bank balances.

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Holes

Holes? Don’t talk to me about holes. I once met a man who had so many holes, he looked like a block of cheese from a cartoon. He had holes in his holes. Holes in his shoes where things got in, holes in the lining of his coat where things got out. Everything was the wrong way with this guy.  He’d lose money with one hole and take in water with another, but gee, I think it might have been all those holes which made him so damn wholesome. On the one hand the guy never got too attached to things, you see, but, on the other, he never took them for granted either. He kept things close to his heart, when he had them, graciously accepted it when they were gone. He appreciated a sunny day; he understood a rainy one. He was full of holes, but he was the most complete man I've ever met.

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