(no title)

Breakup on a highway overpass

he stands, hands
clutched to the diamonds
of a chain fence. The sun,
white against the orange
of sky, glittering grays
and blacks of city,
breaks against his shoulder, spreads
rays against his back, a luminous curve
on his neck. His fingers
are wet. The water seeps
into the dry cracks, feels grainy
against the rusty metal strands.

.                                                                      All gridlocked,
cars sound off below (and so do people).
It’s not you he whispers
and hears footsteps,
sees hair bobble up the side steps
and turns, head down, and repeats the steps:
You’re great. But. You know. It’s not you
and starts to cry. (A gold-in-the-sun-haired woman
doesn’t notice as she passes by.)
He walks home.

.                                      The moon high, the sun
taken from the sky.

This is a terrible poem. But an awesome two-minute free-write.  :)

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