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