Forced into view.
Forced into you,
budding branches reaching up into the sky.
past failed forecasts of blizzards.
Meteorologists ceding to botanists.
Seeding pots with this,
Weeding rows of ebbing snow,
a hedgerow garden grow,
Permission to engage,
green thumb sage,
but, barometric gauge,
indicates bare landscapes.
All is lost?
All of the words.
An expressive and bitter, “No!”
A wrinkled nose, from unkempt nose hairs.
The minute my hands are involved with dish soap.
Doggie scratching on the door.
The mail carrier ripped important correspondence shoving it into your cast iron mailbox.
Molded plastic breaks when stepped on, and finds soft tissue on a foot sole.
The bus escapes the nearest stop, just as I turn the corner of the driveway.
Left for life.
Left for dead.
The long cold walk.
Concrete sprawling out, out, and forever.
The river’s edge.
Depths of frozen sleep.
The sky suffocates my passage.
Doesn’t recognize or care to remember my boot imprints in the snow.
It melts gradually, and meets the sewer grate for the trip to the harbor.
Halfway house spectacles line the corridor leading to transit.
Coffee and cigarettes substitute for harder gravities.
My hardship brethren walking the walk.
Life is hard for all.
It’s hard to set parameters for yourself, when they’ve already been set well in advance of your arrival to this fucking circus.
Jack Lost believes that new fallen snow contains the answers to prayers.