November quickens paces
this time of night in Manhattan.
This time of year is for us this year
and none other.

Pull my jacket tighter:
smug James Dean with his leather collar
with a jubilant scream
from his oil platform,

“it’s better to burn out than to fade away,”
but most fires burn out then fade away
while shivering augers search for omens in embers
that they missed in dry twigs and –

pass me the crossword –
four letters down for solar flare
doomed to succumb to chill Autumn air.