My hands cry out like wakened babes in the cold air
as I step out into morning
-it is cold!-
they cry
-and we are but small and brittle, like cheap glass! take us back inside!-

I pause at the driveway
ignoring my hands
and let the car go by before me
due respect paid to the God in the machine

On the bus and waiting for motion
I stare at the woman in the Noodle ad
thinking to myself for the thirtieth time that she's beautiful
and I wonder silently what she smells like in the morning.

AcB 02.22.01