By Jessica Fox-Wilson
Streetlights dot the sidewalk,
pierce the dark sky like stars.
Salt, gravel and ice slide
me forward, unsteadily. I know
what is coming next:
eight feet, ten feet, twenty
of packed semi, buttressed
by sheets of plywood. I will hop
left-right-left-right, blowing
warm breath into my freezing
fingers, taste rubber work gloves
on my lips. I will not talk
too early, will not wear a back brace
over shirt, under coat, will not
breathe black exhaust fumes, will not
ask for help hoisting the oak armoire
on the lone two wheeler, while
guiding it safely inside. The only
conversation will be two unfunny
morning DJs cackling on the radio
and my internal counting of cardboard
boxes, minutes on my time sheet,
minutes until the sky burns blue
and I crawl tired, home.
(Jessica Fox-Wilson 30 year old working poet/writer for
Labels: Jessica Fox-Wilson, Poem
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