Ghosts float these sidewalks, pluck at ripe fruit
downwind of the hungover morning.
Cynics sip sweet coffee, disprove God’s love,
grow rings of gnarled bark. On the other
side of time and sea, Alexander died.
Did Zeus weep for his boy the way I grope
for kisses you blew at me weeks ago
and lost in a vortex of paper wings,
thunderbolts, fireflies? Church is the only else
left here for me when gas is cheap enough
to pray. Babies will someday tug the drapes
of your neck, ride horsie on the knees
of an old man I may always wish were me.