Hands

I'm a lonely man,
my city structured with frowns
providing a fortress for someone.
Joy leaks out in ink-stained sheets
Draped over, casting shapes, casting clowns.

Do we yearn for a footprint
since we yearn for the shoe?
Or is the impression, the pressure, the key?
I've tried to ask you this in some daydreams that I had
But you're always busy, being make believe.

So I take trains and think on escalators
(right side, never left)
Two girls linked and whispered something,
now I see hope in hands holding hands.