Small Mercies

The money you wired
purchased small mercies:
chocolate; an indy film;
cigarettes; a book of
poetry -
fires to warm
one’s hands by - nothing
to get burnt with.
Exchange rates can’t buy
one miserly glimpse
of your smile’s shadow
from a nearby window,
your form looming
like a promise
in a doorway,
or your hand
waving from afar.
The sound
of your feet,
dancing.

Instead,
this bitch, Time,
she keeps passing
in her fancy boots -
and
a solitary German beer.

I drown in you,
glass deep.