Old snow turns me feral, I’m through, don’t tell me to get cozy when I live
in a land encrusted with icy oil and dirt. I am turning 31 next week, what a silly number,
though I admire its nerve of only being divisible by one and itself. I take myself out
to lunch, overhear a stranger tell a friend she bought 60 bucks of art supplies that
sit in a corner untouched, how she wishes Jerry was better about things, and such
needing brings her to tears. Hey stranger, I wanna tell you Jerry needs to step the fuck up
or you step the fuck out, unbury your watercolors, eat and drink and paint naked all day
if that’s what you want, but I am silent as I finish my soup (understand that I’m always
braver in my head) tip cash, and return to the concrete lot. Even the sky is mush, but
at least my belly is warm, my brain wrapped in the kind of wool scarf that tickles
the neck. Thoughts itch, divide themselves, seek temporary relief as my fingers
stop on the car door handle, knuckles split and bleeding, slush seeping through
cracks in my well-worn boots, my inner evils melting into temporary calm,
for they, too, only exist in my head. Say I open that door. Say I begin to thaw.
