A s he drops toward her window,
The wind at his ear jeers and
Runs chilled fingers through his hair.
Tulips in his hand become
The color of taxi-cabs
Waiting at the curb below--
A vile, mustard-orange hue.
He damns the corner florist
As he notices the brown
On the edges of petals,
Suddenly imperfect and
Crushed in his white-knuckled grip.
Reek of jasmine vines rises
From below, reminding him
Of home lost from memory...

A curtain is held back by
The French-manicured hand of
His girlfriend at her window,
Patting her rollers as she
Smiles into a cordless phone.
Her eyes are like excited
Marbles in an empty jar,
Rolling back and forth as she
Talks about their unborn babe
With her mother in Kansas.
She tugs her apricot robe
Across her swollen belly.

As he falls, her eyes meet his.
He notes a mascara glob
Black on her shadowed eyelid.
Her hand releases the phone
And clutches at her belly
In one swift, spastic movement.

He sees the pores in concrete
Opening to devour him.
A million miniature mouths
Still taste faded pink sidewalk
Chalk from last week's hopscotch games.
They salivate as they wait
For his blood to fill their throats,
Which have been parched for too long.
He screams as they open wide.