 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Poetry
Felix Thursday
Out in the Cold
for Mark Livesay
The town is almost peaceful.
The street top mimics the sky:
the hue of a blank television screen.
The air is cold metal on our skin.
There's no reason to be awake right now;
not a damn thing for us to do.
Not a word passes between us;
night is like a hand over our mouths.
We roam the sidewalks past the unlit windows
of the store fronts, under a canopy of shadows.
Flaps of newspaper perform pirouettes,
while the sad lamp posts look on with indifference.
The wind erupts through the streets
like the aftershock of an Atom Bomb;
leveling piles of leaves and sending them
whirling like paper shrapnel.
This night is not fit for man nor beast.
Even the smoke ascending from the rooftops
seems to be trying to crawl back into the chimneys.
But we saunter onward, with the kinship of strays.