Wednesday, May 21, 2014

The Cry

It’s been snowing for days
and the reminder I scribbled 
on the back of my hand
in ballpoint pen a week ago
is still there, nearly indistinguishable
from the hairs

I sleep most of the day
then late at night venture outside,
the only one around for blocks
Every footstep crackles and crunches
as if I’m stepping on broken glass.
The sound ricochets off the buildings,
screaming my existence up and down
the deserted streets.

Next day I tromp down to the coffee shop
Someone has drawn a heart in the snow
on every windshield on this side of the street
Chunks of ice drop from the wires, from the eaves
to shatter against the ground.
I sit at the counter along the window
watching families lug sleds,
listening to chains churn the street brown
and I reach out with my fingertip
write a single word 
on the fogged-over pane

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