The word’s been bounced about in gas stations

as you’re pumping way, the spectral drops

on the pavement.  You resent it there,

that serpent.  The word’s been bellowed

out a bar door flooding with night

after a tab’s been left behind.  Who’s

going to pay it now?  Beautiful.  Just beautiful.

You look away from its flag in your head,

the black stocking flexing out of a car,

a gold chain whipping by, Christmas lights

in April, surface effects, not the real thing.

You want to save it for some special occasion

like the time you had to close the clinic door

on the girl looking in your eyes for hope,

but then you would not dare to think it.
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