lamb and pine cone press.

store signs hold names
of owners’ wished-for yachts
(bloody mary, the fortnight)
and blink on
like the sugar pumped dying-dead eyes
of kids after a christmas party

and well if it isn’t christmas now–
we lost the date
days ago
and our money
too

you’re cold and i’m colder
in this thin, short coat
and your pant cuffs are soiled
from slush
and the fog is beating me down

tonight we’ll take the train
to the gulf or however
far we can
get

and i know you’re thinking
of smashing the thief’s face
with a cement block

and of course i’m doing
the same
to whoever said
the journey is
its own reward