Walking me Home

this is our dance

nightwalking home
I keep the brush
of factory walls
against my shoulder

and the moon
between powerlines
black ink rule and pole
no trees in this neighborhood

your wide open faces
we tread knots along a string
moonshadows stepped
on every crack

we could kiss by the wall
and there'd be a song in that
but we are not lovers
just storytellers

what human is that?
a bus stopped figure
flying a cigarette plume
weave me their heart

this is our dance
walk me home

© Brendan Bonsack
July 2017