Wishes
It's not in the vast expanse
or darkness kissing the white
luminescence of winter snow
nor in the smoky puff
of laughter; not the
lungs filled with cold or
girls resembling flamingos
with long stilettoed legs
and bright, warm coats above,
disappearing into pubs.
It's not in the rings left
by martini glasses and beer
bottles nor in the lonely
olive thoughtlessly swept
away by a waitress's
gin-soaked hand, the same
hand that sweetly wipes
away an eyelash from
her child's sleeping cheek
—a wish waiting to be granted.
She watches it float down,
lost in cream carpet,
and somehow she knows.
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