I wandered in the boulevards last night (the late piano lost its way to sleep again),
In the maze of that lonely place, looking for someone who might have me as his
Last thought before sleep claimed him.

But I dreamt instead, slinking and slithering where the stars bled memories,
Cheap like figurines of faith dripping light (carefully timed like the tap of draft),
For price of beer inspired song that rhymed with the darkness.

Me, I'd gladly have paid the bar tab with lunacy (all I have left at all), to touch,
To prove, to be right for once, on those soft fingers, that salvation is worthwhile,
Perhaps even possible if I dared hope for some other god.

Not every man, you see, can boast such assurances in the night during soft, sad October,
As quiet, (another) soft angelic doll, red and bold only redder darkened by a nighty-night,
Perfumed blue teddies up flattering into corners, sighing into his bed-sheets.

Those inviting, pouting lips (encompassing his flesh, she knifes me), with kisses sweet,
(But I'm accustomed to the concentric red archer's rings orbiting my thoracic #4),
Less painful than her lip smeared red ring around his arrow.

Oh, I've seen them give off love songs - old songs, and dance into his bed looking,
Needing something he can't even find, something not even his own to give.
The line between misogyny and jealousy isn't conveniently perforated.

There is a place where I might sing and smell the still water of the baptismal,
And if I cocked my head just so, I might see a sliver of some stained glass
Saint, waiting for me to fall or cut myself on the pages of a closed book.

Make sure he's got the yellow-and-blue-makes green pulled between his fingers,
(That I'm sealed up tight) because faith's not disposable like I am.

Eric D. Moore