::Literate Blather::
Monday, February 12, 2007
Poem: Widower

I'm cold
all the time.

Delicate frost feathers
cling to the cracked
window glass.
Outside, the road
is ashen and gritty
with salt.
Tree branches
in the north wind.

My wool mittens
are torn.
I have lost my hat.
Collar up, shoulders hunched,
I avoid patches
of ice
on the craggy sidewalk pavement.

My ears sting
when I arrive at
the coffee shop.
Closed. Windows dark.

Hands buried deep
in my pockets.
I stand rigidly,
tears welling.

My loneliness
is complete.

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