Adorn

Odin-esque feathers, decrepit of vision and liquor.  
Always on the outs with another floozy bird turned  
grey. I don't recall the night this week, only street-  
lights aglow with reflections. The elderly passing,  
seemingly weightless together, twined, heart in hand  
as they slow to a brisk step or two. And the teens,  
the weathered years. They always seem to change  
so quickly, mostly for the worst, but there's always  
better. Somewhere. They, heart in pocket, hand in  
hand, run to where they're going. The unheard of.  
That place.