The spring sky has surrender to the clouds, streaking gray across these gaps of blue. The wind whips its warnings through the streets. The usual habits of flocks and strays accelerate, the scramble for warmth and security running at double time. The garbage cans line the curb, standing at attention as the light leaves yet again. The night finds me beneath its measure.
A night without stars, a day framed with sleep and dust. I watch these unbound grays gather, linger in the chill shadows, listening for some distant signal, some unknown call. Hands finding pockets, eyes following any hint of shine. Inside, I switch on a single light. Inside there is little left to see.
Mark the day and write the number. Lift the cup and breathe the steam. The small details must be remembered. The small details are all I can afford. The coffee on the burner, the books stacked flat on the shelf. The measure of what I once was, the stories I will turn to some tomorrow I have saved. Somehow I trail another sentence. Somehow I remembered where I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment