Overwinter
Gradually, then suddenly, the wind
kicks up prairie grass like brown waves
close to shore. Concrete is the color of
the sky. The clouds reinvent themselves
on Instagram again, this time as the fog
beneath a streetlight harkening the end
of a black and white matinee. Shadows
tend to blend in with their subtle ushers.
Most of the iron fence isn’t really there.
To carry on evokes how perfectly it fits,
your face inside your hands. Remember
how cold the turquoise was on the ring
held to your cheek? It was a good thing.
It meant the blue-green stones genuine,
desirable and real. But our lefthand path
led to a fallow field with ringless finger
rows, like long gears in frozen machinery.
Storefronts there have firewood wrapped
in plastic, like a body’s bundled bones.
People walk past you with their heads
in fur-trimmed coats so thick they can’t
look back unless they turn themselves
around. What should a warm-blooded
animal eat in such cold-blooded winter?
Needles? Trash? Windowsill pie? Until
the season changes, whatever I can find.