Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Here's a story

of a man whose name
you'll never know, whose path
you'll cross only this once.
The ice has turtlenecked his
shopping cart full of cans,
bags. Beside the stoplight,
on a bench where you see
his breath. He asks for nothing
he's monk-still, encapsulated
in the silence of the icey
scene. If he were inside
a snowglobe, he'd be beautiful
and sad and safe to inspect
closely, carefully.
The light turns
a warm green and you
look away. You
look away.

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