Your flourescent coat flashes,
a tooth-white smile
in the night.

Come in off stupid Haight Street.
Come into the bookstore and
talk to me a while.

On the counter,
I watch your hands,
dry and cracked from the cold.

Tell me again about
your lost cat,
your foster sister,
your Beatles house on Bernal Hill.

We can listen to
The Modern Lovers, or
Neil Young, or
The Cure,
or whatever.

While you take notes on
my cd collection,
I'll pick out some books
you might like.

Stay until closing
even though you have to go
to the grocery store.

Wave goodbye,
your hands
dry and cracked from the cold.
I wish your boyfriend would
put lotion on them
at night while you sleep.