Tumbling toward the station
glossy eyed and weak
hands murmur a cold hum
as they redden
self piteous and cynical
bare by no fault but my own.

A shimmer and I pause
magpie glassy eyes
small blades of glistening grass
I stop the music and return
to hear the frost crunch as I pick up
and I revel in the sound
to try to convince myself to stay alive.