COLD CONSCIENCE

The Big Freeze has been pedaling cognac

to the serotonin mafia that runs these bitter streets;

we are all walking heartbeats looking for something to eat.

The colder it becomes, the more hardy our screams.

The herb cabinets are breaking loose.

Pierogi and bigos under down comforters,

ham hocks and black-eyed peas under the heat lamps of our eyes.

There are alley marches in the Villages,

everything Fall is on sale:

trees are giving out free leaves,

vintage leather blue boots and hot cider.

There’s a soulmate on every corner

with a cigarette and a need for someone’s fire.

Bums meet in Thompson Square Park at noon for a memorial;

Tiny Sad Tommy got a job in the L.E.S.

C’est la vie, booze comrade.

Henry the Hawk came back to his branch

after two years on the West Side.

Our chests are chimneys, our lungs al dente.

The sewer’s steam, a street remedy for achy feet.

The Chinese water beetle who was there,

in the corner of my kitchen window—

the specimen I’m supposed to report to Health and Safety—

is gone.

We were all here, once.

I’ve gathered the collective conscience of Avenues A through D.

Pricked every phone conversation to California with it.

Begun to miss the way Los Angeles never goes out of season.

My lover and I sleep in till 2,

eat eggs at 3,

find a way to light something by 5.

A case of broken wine glasses lie in the street.

A couple argue through mouth-covered scarves,

tongues particularly tied.

Everything sex and supper.

Everything super and sax.