I stepped outside in my gloom fuzz,
With black clouds strapped to my back.
I even grimace at children nowadays.

On the path to my mailbox,
Hunched over myself,
Eyes chained to the pavement,
I felt the urge to glare at the sun
And witness as it glared right back.

A sunbeam of empathy,
Drooling light into my bruises,
She slapped me with her
Warm-honey white palm,
And for the first time this year
I'm glad to be alive.

The ugly jazz in your stride,
Your snow drenched tombstone simper,
And your bruised peach overcoat of skin
Have been dethroned but
Will never be replaced.
My hearts a museum and
You're the big T-Rex all the kids came to see.

Encased in metal, their bodies careened towards the city. The grinding, the metal on metal screeching, quieted their thoughts.

Head against glass, crowded and foggy, the mother in grey plots her scheme to the nearest bottle of liquor. The man with guilt in his eyes, clutches her hand and wonders when he can get away.

They coast past creeks of muck and cigarette butts. Two bodies on their way to the next hour.

The small girl sleeps on her mothers chest breathing foul ash from the air. Her father smokes with his hand behind a book and exhales sour remorse from his worn lungs.

The mother with heavy eyes, avoids wishful thinking. She has never relied
on luck, so she sits, encased in metal ignoring faces and avoiding eyes.