Time of Year

You spot some beauty in the neon crowd,
easily making your choice,
the lights as your guide.

I bet you she screams, you say.
I shrug.

Do you think she smokes?
I shrug.

I want a girl who smokes.
One dirty
enough for me.
No one’s dirty enough
for you.

You chuckle and concede.
We leave.

Into the brisk night air,
with some lesser opportunities.

I want to die this time of year,
you say.
So do I, I say.
Winter winds
bring suicide.