Snow Globe Wiry haired Nick on my left, the one yet to die in a plane crash, and John, once-lover, now friend, on my right, hold me in our giddy weave through the snow bombed Boston Commons. Christmas Eve... our futures still stretched out ahead of us on some gypsy's palm. We kiss where the sidewalks meet. Nick's mouth tastes of weed, John's of some sweet sticky punch. My laugh slices the dark like a laser. A star loosens; falls. I wish this night might become a snow globe to take home and shake on some other Christmas Eve.  I want to see us again, we three on this holy night high and shivering, young and invincible, as we dance to the last tinkling strains of Liebestraum. Pris Campbell Published Dec 2007 Sketchbook Journal Also published in The Dead Mule Dec 2009 Photograph: Boston Commons Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage