I feel myself winding down
an empty play ground, the children
shouting toward their classrooms
their energy still present and exhausting.
I feel myself worried that the pain is less sharp.
Your back to me, your shoulders hunched
and not enough courage to turn and say
When you turn I am gone, have been for awhile.
I feel myself warming to the cold, and my stride
less quick and my hands listless at my sides.
Old men in cardboard boxes, stuffed newspaper in their
I perhaps do not belong here under viaducts and such
but I’d rather no one find me
feeling constantly less.