12/28/2019

​drive by the man
with the cardboard sign
at the entrance of
Wal-Mart and think:
"nothing will break me
like that--nothing"
then someday you're
alone. maybe at the
top of a mountain
in winter, half buried
with zeroes, or maybe
in a hospital bed, grey,
awaiting the mask
you imagine our little world
twinkling in the valley
a mouse's postcard.
or dwell on your gallbladderless
friends, those who are left--
not many these days.
the snow crawls up
you like bedsheets
or visa versa. time is
heavy. time is also feathered.
"am I brave," you ask
as the nurse takes off
your shoes. as the cold
slides it's envelope-openers
through them.
it's a good question.
good as asking
"who am I, really."
the wind wants to answer.
as does your heartbeat
tangible to you at last
a little line of mountains
beeping on the tiniest
screen.