Juncture

Waiting, framed by 
flaking white paint curls
and whispers, falling
too soft, among the
voices that roar,
suck smoke
cycling converging
exhaust through
each breathy gape

Waiting, beneath
the feather streamers,
cold, lingering,
while others
rubbing forearms, 
spurning contact
pause too brief 
for feeling

Watching the wall—
those shadows wobbling
in front of it—against
better judgments, 
the wan exchange of interests,
sipping acrid drinks.

Wavering, in a smoldering
doorway, choked 
by sighs