I won you at the carnival while trying to win a poster of a cat wearing a suit.
It’s that you keep saying you’re tired makes me want to weep.
You won’t sleep when I ask,
You wish something was yours,
We are poor and I braid your soft hair.
From our rooftop our eyes are turned not upward,
but to the lit windows of the pastel building across the street.
A man has been sitting at the window for hours looking one way down the street.
I get warmth from your pale fingers as we huddle beneath one shawl
beneath the green and slanted moon.