friday night

there were no beautiful women,
no cigarettes flaming into themselves,
no liquor, no red cups stained with lipstick.

from a balcony, i searched
the city sky for constellations
only finding orphaned starlight.

there is this beautiful woman,
but she is not here, to hold, to kiss.
I rearrange the letters of her name—sail.

a light turns itself on and off in my head,
a watch light resides atop a broken
memory searching for a new dream.

some beautiful women know me
others want to—so i’m told or telling myself,
or somewhere in between, where she lives, loving me,

and many friday nights amount to
a poem unraveling across the cold floor
of my discontent, and others, fall through

into the laps of beautiful women that listen to
‘kind of blue’ as much as i draw their smiles
with metaphor, hoping they see opportunity

in the space between our lips--
air whispering of movement to
somewhere maybe even a promise.