No Taxi

The thin layer of snow crunches
beneath our feet, as we walk with
great care down this old cobbled street.

Hair and shoes, tits and waists;
tonight for a time we were above
our place - Dancing through
postmodern maisons d'opium,
sporting saddles with belts and
drinking overpriced apple juice.

'What's that? Speak up babe,
I can't hear you.'

Conversations began and
ended in confusion, with
the in-between filled by
shouted pleasantries.

The hustle and bustle
of the brown man's shop
was a comforting change -
incandescent tubes of light
bathed us gently as
complete strangers and
old friends blurred into
one.

The thick layer of snow crunches
beneath our feet, as we walk with
silent trepidation on the long high street.

Steam clouds fill the air - dancing ghosts
of our burning desire clashing against the
frigid atmosphere. Yet we're still trapped
within our own Trinity-Saint Sergius, the
damned living by His rule;
Swiftian tropes-r-us.