Amsterdam Clouds

These Amsterdam clouds,
have nothing on me.
No pull, no touch.
Total disconnect.

It paints itself in whispers and crow feet,
taunting every passerby
with its taut breasts,
bold and courageous
like any harlot
on every street
on every man’s lap,
waiting for a quick fix,
cigarette powder decorating each light,
holding on for dear life.

Oh—These Amsterdam clouds,
have no thrill,
for an old broom
like me.

But your love is infinite,
as I carry you around,
for six sinful years,
through European streets,
through years of fears,
that my love for you is so complete.

Oh– These Amsterdam clouds,
have no thrill,
for a lonesome ache,
that you weep in me.

The only Mark that stains my heart.