All that is left is the cold,
a folded coat,
the sharp wry shrug of the anecdote
told with the over-rehearsed timing of a wheezy old joke
All which remains in the rain, are statues
quartered by shadow.
Signals and signs behind bus shelters, stripped and
teenaged and guilty with sweat.
The playing-card leaves twist
stuttered arguments, stop-start sighs in the doorway,
an awkward excuse for a kiss
dressed up as a goodbye.
All that remains is the optimism,
that not all beer mats are palimpsests
not all walks home will echo footsteps alone
not all walks alone will lead to your home.
All that remains is the cold, a shrilled bell reminder
of the weakest of ends,
too much time for thinking, not enough friends.