The boys are inside,

The boys are inside,
banging on drums
and strumming guitars; the
whole place is a mountain of strings
somewhere far from this cold night.

I lean on the outside wall
smoking a cigarette i bummed,
and she paces up the sidewalk toward
me, the happy-new-year sign above my
head –a mockery well into january–
reflects on her face,
like make up no magazine would sell.

She says I give massages
for donations
and do i got a donation.

If i had anything in my pockets,
I would buy her some whisky
and pay her to love herself.