A poem from A Winter With A Moniker

NUMB, ER, LESS

Inexperienced,

using two conciliatory fingers,

not green enough,

growing tiredness only –

(deceived by the planting of our feet  in the isolating snow we tried to convince ourselves of the same direction)

spring’s thaw removed all doubt

and the grass didn’t remember

anything of us.

I rested

a single file alpha-

numerically shot

into to the glory of oblivious freedom.

You cursed your luck,

the wrong number up,

you consoled yourself before

another (better) bet,

angry that your blanket will

need to flap in the wind

a little longer

until you’re home and dry

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *