Saturday, December 5, 2009



I call

for direction.

don’t lose me here;

not now.

a cold discarded penny

on wet pavement.

The phone smells

like other people’s voices.

Snow’s falling

across a silver, steel span

called the Brooklyn Bridge.

Manhattan calls

but I’ve no destination

on an empty night.

If I could,

I would make time crawl

to me on its hands and knees

and you would love me again.

Lindsay Riggs Brown

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