Fingers and Bones
far from their homes
milling through crowds
in Times Square

Fingers remembers to
check for his messages
and Bones runs her hands
through her hair

Over the coats of
the sailors on leave
Fingers blows bubbles of soap

Under a cap of
remarkable weave
Bones spies an off‑duty Pope

She whistles to Fingers
a snake‑charming sound
that the Pontiff
is part of the revels

But the crowd closes up
where her vision was found
and she's pointing
her fingers at devils

JD Frey‑‑June 2, 1997



more poems?