Leaves bound around my feet as I trail in the falling snow.
They skirt across my path, darting by me playfully,
as if under careful instruction from the dormant squirrel or an off-duty robin.
Huddled sparrows adorn each branch,
their wings – shivering leaves, keeping the tree company.
Their eyes – as numerous as stars,
follow me down the path, making sure I don’t break
Her illusion, Her polar mirage, Her dormant play.
A failed re-enactment that is in itself beautiful.
Wear your disguise a little longer, I think before retreating to the fire.
Quite soon you won’t have to pretend.
He’d tell me of a feeling he’d get from time to time.
When-wariness would drowsily lower her shield, drunk on lethargy,
when things would grab hold a little too tightly
and the beats would become synonymous with scarcity of breath.
He’d describe it as a sorrow
and a guilt
and a regret.
and an anxiety
and the deepest passion.
It’s all of these things, he’d say, and it leaves me goddamn empty.
In stained red fabric I take my seat
as doors around me shudder shut.
A bitter stench of sweat and urine
stumbles into the adjacent chair.
Telltale signs of spirits.
He’s standing at the exit,
pouring music from his belt.
Shoulder blades bouncing under his leather jacket,
as he dances with the dapper man outside the door.
He shakes his ass, half exposed,
falling deeper in love with the echo of his beat.
Trapped inside a coffee cup,
He can’t fall asleep
But he can’t get up.
Trees shudder in furious protest
Nursing immobilized hands in warm pockets
A hint of ocean in the spray
The wolves are out tonight
A hundred feet,
Lined up all neat,
Sat down to eat
And share a tweet
“Oh, what a treat!”
“It was quite sweet!”
“To cook, a feat!
This big red beet!”
They’d then compete,
How quick the meat,
They could deplete!
A stationed fleet,
They’ve got no suite.
Took to the street
To flee the heat
But the Elite
Would smile discreet –
He had a seat
On cold concrete!
Now all replete,
Their meal complete,
Time to retreat
Those hundred feet.