Thirst

The woman stood on the corner
with a crooked smile.
Eyes behind sunglasses,
she kissed me with her elbows,
 
she stood so close. I held
in my breath and watched a bus
tick time from my wrist.
 
I’m not god; I’m not scared.
Over and over, the crosswalk is filled
to a choke and it’s cold and heavy outside,
the winter air stunning like
 
Steve Martin’s brilliant white hair.
The engines around me whimper
and yelp; the ground crouches before me
and leaps at my heels.
 
Whispers are fired from the doorways
of anonymous glass buildings. 
More of the same apocalyptic
premise that yields no return.
 
As strangers to them and ourselves,
we make a startling promise—
our blood will be enough.