Black Tuesday

The nights taste of missing people and milk.
I wander the streets sweeping wet grass, to keep flowers from dipping,
to gather the last fallen leaf.

Winter-frosted grounds mirror the sky
With hang-gliding clouds.
I’m content the flowers are dead now.
They fit the heart of love emails sent as attachments.

Each winter night, the air tries on a gale; it takes me home.
Sometimes, it snows…
And grass stops growing.

Then I whisper that I love you.

On days like that,
children chide parents,
sell innocence for pants and shoes to keep warm.

Each day that I love you
The stock market crashes.