It is impossible that we should meet
in this public place though I have the urge;
islands are mountains that do not converge
but it is intimacy that is sweet.
Sanctuary of this familiar street
restless as those high-rises through the mist
whose blinking lights alone show they exist,
that only your contour could make complete.

Do I have to buy company tonight?
I’m too broke to afford feeling all right.
I see the place. I wonder is she there—
I could take the other northbound freeway home
and through my own stale disillusion roam…
spendthrift of regret, the present threadbare.

 David Francis