I am the early urban crocus
in a cloak of ice. I am your
favorite four-letter word, full
mailbox, the mythical candle
burning evenly, day after endless
day, charmed I’m sure. I am rock
quartz axed open, fool's gold
glittering stupidly in the shaken
pan. I am the ancient, paint-
chipped radiator's knock,
keeping you up, promising heat.
I’m a swept floor you didn’t
have to sweep, the soaking bean
gone soft-ish though without yield,
the small-breasted peep show
the city of Brotherly Love gives
no tip, though I suspect you would.
Oh hello there. I do not draw
the curtains at dusk.
I’ve not got curtains.