Little Black Book, Eric Bachman 2007

Pages blur
faces turn
some time
no money.

Everything
changes
on a dime.

Air crackles with life-lightning
smokey air conditioned breeze,
out of the dark we are all born.

Numbers
and pages
with stars:
one or two
three, four
and five.

Few could hold your candle,
none could match your style--
ten, eleven, twenty-four-seven.

A page in
the book
torn out
flying on
oceania's
cool breeze.

Butterflys drink from the flowers,
sometimes, shot glasses, bottles;
always to their light heart's content.

One more page torn from the book
forever are the stars there yours
shining like rain in a city street lamp

Light
casting shadows
on this
little black book
of mine.