sunset stink

Tonight,
my bones ache
for damp
cross-breeze,
lonesome romance.
Upper floors
of an Old
San Francisco hotel
can afford

my naked form,
stretched
billboard-style
against a steel grey
sunset, stink
rolling in
scenting two days
dirty sheets
for a pre-dinner
dance with myself.

Down the stairs,
to hail a taxi
to some
exotic greasy spoon
in another
but still
too familiar
neighborhood,

the light lingers
perhaps
longer than it should
but that's Autumn
in July;
that's how I've come
to like and expect
the years to fly.
Things change,
though,
as a rule won't waste
a wave on
a fleeting glance.

I am
twenty two,
twenty three,
twenty four;
twenty six;
greying at the
temples.

Experience comes
when need
is long gone
but still
headstrong,
I keep my stories
tucked up under
my hat.

© 2009 N. Chaplin
All Rights Reserved