My worn and beaten hat lay resting near the bed
On the nightstand are ticket stubs--one way only
A day old glass of milk--almost filled to the brim
In my hand is a broken picture frame
With the store-bought photo still in it
Every day I leave the house--same time--same route
Every day I talk to the same shifting feet
Every day a routine...
Every day one more breath...
The snow came early this year
And the frost on my "pain" makes intricate designs
Those irritaed backs moving up and down
Angry at the weather's intentions of making them late
Late for their death...
Late for their silence...
It is quiet on the street today
Seems as if the world knows something
Something to leave me out of the loop
There is no space to park
Still warm cars ticking after use
Smiling faces and newly bought sweaters
A play in my neighborhood windows
I woke this morning for no reason
After the party last night work was called off
I guess I didn't receive the invitation
There is no parking on the street again
The city must have cut down the diseased trees
...they line the street...a familiar smell
...they better pick them up soon
The world gave up playing its trick
Everything is back to routine again
The same shifting feet
The same empty conversations
...comfortable death...
...comfortable silence...
