Chasing

Snow, it falls; i called
a stranger i used to know,
and it was just bars on tuesdays,
lounge spaces, and dirty plush cushions for lovers,
all empty in december, but for the soft, raging music
that drifts in the air and finds no home,

and myself,
with a drink, in a sturdy glass,
drunk, but not piu troppo, too much.

Some people called, looking 
for me. They want 
me to be happy, yes, but please, 
don't be piu troppo, which they don't say,
and there is a scent 
of acrid hunger, the stone-pit pangs of wolves in winter.

Who is this stranger who walks in rain, and leaves us 
to our devices? Are you sad? I think
this is making you sad and angry, and I am worried,
so i say, yes, yes i am, i am sad and angry, and i am

lying, on a couch, in a dim bar, 
in the dark of the city,
and promise, to come home 
when i am done. So they go. And they sleep.

And a glass of something golden or silver, 
sits safe on my chest,
and i am alone 
with the ceiling and the walls, and the space 

of the solitary bar, feeling something 
secret, and raw, & most certainly piu troppo.