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Jukebox Warmth
Sidling up to the warmth
of a jukebox
with a shoebox of coins
underarm,
feeding the machine
if it means
I can buy more distractions
from the cold...
But these jingles
are growing old
as my skin mingles
with the glowing frame
in vain attempts to absorb
some incandescence
for my claims that if,
in essence,
I should come
into the presence
of your color
mine would shine the same.
Forgive my rambles.
I'm just ambling
for the comfort of a rhyme
to divide
the pain of silence
into manageable chunks.
As if a stanza
could undo this funk.
