Clenching and unclenching my teeth
and gloved fists—to purposely
my own fight or flight response—in order
to keep warm as I
obstinately homeward, repeating: If only—
I knew more.
I could learn the trick. I would flap my down
jacket. And turn myself into
Instead of going on like this. I could then,
on—in the best parts (the fine plastic minds,
wet furtive hearts, and brown bruises
of so many lovely future generations
of women and men
callow species. But—at what terrible cost
comes that thought? It's currency
feeding some mouths somewhere, or at least,
fixing those snow-hungry holes
in my street.
Speaking of which, I think I just
my own house.