Monday, November 18, 2013


The snow isn't
here, but I'm waiting for it

Thunderheads loom
overhead, over the freeway
I haven't seen the news, 
but it feels cold enough to freeze
Lips parched and peeling,
hands sensitive and tingling
inside leather gloves

Tents and shanties line
gloomy and downcast alleys
Below the dwellings of the fortunate, 
I notice a woman and child
foraging through unwanted items

I feel a strange guilt,
standing here towering, looking
down upon them

The little girl coughs violently,
chest heaving, almost choking, 
and puffs of vapor forming 
and disappearing in bluish lamplight
The mother rubs a bare purplish hand
on the stooped, convulsing child

The girl stops
Distressing silence
I remember wisdom from
sources that urge benefaction
and turn around, ashamed
Too afraid to give away

Greatly troubled and 
wanting a diversion from myself,
I descend stairs and walk
toward rotating doors
Mucus in my nostrils freeze
as I inhale frigid air

I leave the building and turn left,
away from the alley of disgrace
I see the tavern sign a couple 
blocks away, white and frosted, 
rocking in the wind

I sit in the corner, 
mind laden with sadness
and bury my face in gloves
Damning reek of leather hides

A man approaches, drink in hand
He places it on the table, 
the glass connected with wood 
and there was a tap of misery
"Cheer up," he said, nodding 

Looking up, the man walking away, 
I sink into a more profound depression
I cover my face in hands once again, 
my temporary refuge from inadequacy

Outside, the snow starts to fall
Small droplets crystallize,
gathering on the pavement
There's a woman near the hearth, 
cozily stroking the fire 


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