I watch you pass
down below,
through cracked glass, a torn
dusted-black screen.
You scurry across the snow like
some kind of tiny rodent, in a hurry
to get anywhere but here
as the brittle cold rouges
your rounded cheeks and I
warm my hands on the heater
in the window, smiting you.
Your bright green coat nauseates
me, reminds me
of the boiled, rotten asparagus
I ate last night and the red bag you carry
presses your petite
frame into the cement, seemingly
shrinking you, and the squirrels—
who are also watching—bury their
sustenance, their means of
survival, knowing that you would
take it if you could. I should watch
the squirrels more often.
Burlesque Press 