Drip
lights are
still up
blinking
on boxes
lined in
a row
and last
night
they were
blurry
like a Monet
wipers like
brushes
dabbing
and dipping
framed
in the shield
the movie
just watched
like the single
cup of cappuccino
drunk
like the smallness
of the shelf
they built
at the bookstore
for Frost
and other
dead poets
like the song
Chesney sings
to me
and me
alone
like the
street
dressed
in sequins
the lamps
like sticks
in silver
holders
standing
apart
the wax
warm
and willing
to bend
a bit
before
it hardens
on the
table
TL