You who hear in disbanded prose 
unbroken by rules of art
a sweet chocolate symphony
walk a wet city street. 
A storefront washed in neon
reflects in leather eyes.
Windows flash shiny trinkets, 
and old folding knives. 
Pale hands, red-tipped, 
dive in plastic bins and
pluck out a rusty watch. 
Now it ticks quietly on your wrist
and the wild torrents of its heart
say “I love you.”

Posted in poetry by Samuel Swauger