Eyes can't help but follow
long hair in long coats
wind shaking the strands like
snowflakes, their own little patterns.
The cinemaplex is open,
negative seventeen degrees Fahrenheit and
someone is still making money.
Wrapping around a blocked-off
manhole I turn the corner too quickly,
bump into a homeless man and his chair.
He asks if I've any change.
I say No, my pockets are empty.
Inner monologue firing, always,
I cop the corner and take a moment to my
physical self, ask it questions, *How are you?
You've been a slight bit distant during this time.
Do you miss home?*
I'm not sure I've found a home to miss.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
Eyes can't help but follow
long hair in long coats
wind shaking the strands like
snowflakes, their own little patterns.
The cinemaplex is open,
negative seventeen degrees Fahrenheit and
someone is still making money.
Wrapping around a blocked-off
manhole I turn the corner too quickly,
bump into a homeless man and his chair.
He asks if I've any change.
I say No, my pockets are empty.
Inner monologue firing, always,
I cop the corner and take a moment to my
physical self, ask it questions, *How are you?
You've been a slight bit distant during this time.
Do you miss home?*
I'm not sure I've found a home to miss.
Request permission to use this poem