Rhythms of His Streets

by Tobi Alfier

He is a human haiku—

watching the holiday revelry,

the bright lights of the Christmas market,

strangers passing each other with nods

and smiles, there he sits staring

out a window at the flurries,

watching the bare branches as they pile up

with snow just like his heart

piles up. Freezing. Frozen. One syllable

at a time even as he drinks

Irish Coffee to thaw his bones.



She stood there in front of him, legs planted squarely,

said there’s always good in the world but it’s not you.

It happens to him all the time, he doesn’t know why.

He begs please tell me, he can’t change

what he doesn’t know. Ironwork runs

down the street and on each balcony—lines

of ornate cages and prisons, keeping him in,

keeping her out. Always good in the world.

Sixty-four steps up the bell tower

lit by streetlamps below,

but it’s not you over and over again

5 -7–5.



barmaids are busy

the rings of fancy cocktails

and holidays bright



tips are outstanding

church bells toll in the distance

customers cheerful



except the lone man

in the corner by the band

all its songs broken