Whiskey Row, tattooed fingers.

Night time. Hotel, small mountain town.

thinking about Whiskey Row

coffee

how in the day

you break a sweat

and in the night

you see your breath under

a clear, white moon.

This morning, walking the

town square around the row, the courthouse

my dog tracking something

under a spine shaped

cloud offsetting an otherwise perfect sky.

cobalt.

The classically trained paragraphs cross over

sloppy riffs of hope in my head

while I walk the boy around the corners

around the cafes

around the homeless couples

and the shag-haired artists with

tattoos on their fingers.

All of it spills over into the nights

here, when you think you should be back out there

and you will

but not while the

heater hums and warms the

room

and not while the

nights ahead of this one

wait with such

ease

and

allure.