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.