Gray rainy streets

I came here to write
the opus of a withered soul
wallowing past the prime
of pretty and wanton shine.
.
They told me
their terms made of mixed emotion
like a drink someone invented
that never made it past midnight,
all they really wanted
was something sober to say
over gray rain streets
on any given holiday.
.
Holidays that no one comes to
complete with a buffet
standing picture perfect
with forks and spoons and a butter knife too
keeping the plates waiting
while the candles grow cold.
On any given holiday
that no one ever comes to.
.
I wandered for a while
listening to the rain falling past my shoes
thinking in words
while the gray turns shiny
and smiles up at me
patiently listening to my mutterences
trying to figure out
how the pattern works.
gray streets
on a rainy tired monday
opus in the air
somewhere but not here.
.
I think I hear it laughing
through the cemetary bars.
the old people watching me
at least it could be
only their memory,
bouncing back at my ears
while my shoes kiss lightly
gray turned shiny
wearing rain today
keeping me company against the wind.
.
Loose teeth and a bent nail
dancing in my head
wishing it was like the movies
where just at the right time
the music starts to play
and steps are prepared
after hours of blisters and calouses
wearing pretend perfect perfume
while the words disapear from inside my head.
.
A song of mourning
for holidays missed
excuses on telephone lines
as thick as a dark soup.
.
Disapointed and disapointed more
the requiem wearing opus high heels
dances under a hole stained umbrella
thinking of holidays missed
pie hair on beaten turkey
speaking in groans
because no one came to dinner
cept you
and you were there already
waiting while no one came
for the holidays.