Stranger In The City

This city will never
have your heart.
But she will know
your cold fingers
gripping window bars
that old song
in your head
late night foibles
piling cigarette butts.
No, I don't smoke.
Neither does She.
I keep sweeping,
sweeping and dusting
piling cigarette butts
that you leave
here, there, everywhere!
My city will never
have your heart.
Just the diary
you threw out
of your rented
flat, will age
upon her. Yellowing
crumbling, falling
all over her.
No, you do not
have to give her
your heart.

Cinderella?

All my chores
are fairy lights.
I wash and
hang old clothes
upon the wire
where birds sing.
The clouds gather
slow and low.
Rain streams down
all over them.
Their colours drain
softly away, dripping
like a slow waltz.
Down the gutter,
suds of soap
tufts of dream.
The colour of
Your sound spills
on my skin.
Almost like bruises,
beautiful midnight blue.
Wasn't that the colour
of Cinderella's gown too?
I did not lose
my shoe.
You did not come
looking for me.

Potpourri

Peel my sorrows.
Lay them out
on your rooftop.
Wait for days.
A bird drops
a feather sometimes.
A stray leaf
floats over at others.
Summer is long.
Towards the end,
they crisp up,
like potpourri.
Sweep them up.
Keep them safe.
In a glass bowl,
or a velvet case.
On nights when
You can't seem
to breathe,
plunge your face.
Inhale my sorrows.
Like potpourri.
Heady, but dead.