it leaves in empty rooms with parted curtains and dirty windows, a single lamp flickering its goodbye in the hallway—
frozen fire escapes and fading rows of power lines— with sneakers dangling from their wires— wondering if you could shimmy up their poles and snatch one pair for yourself— without frying—
All those 3 a.m. men in thrifted coats— half looking for scraps/ the rest for the echo of a dropped bottle.—
that once where your father, grandfather, your brother, or even- you— caught in the winter fog feeling the frost settle on your cheeks.
You tighten your scarf before you continue— zip up the pieces of yourself— all the places between thought and reply— hoping this place will let you leave.
At the corner you witness between the fingers of the palms you blow on to keep warm— a tenant gone quiet— his breath chill, paper thin.
You carry him past the shut-down laundromat, the parking lot that ends in split asphalt— and lay him down, almost like he was your child, at the steps of the 59th Street mission.—
realizing that now that short journey of you both has become an eulogy— a waiting for the ferryman to take him across to the other side.
But, before a minister can come— the roaches arrive— the rats too. Somewhere inside a pocket an iPhone glows, buzzes— a half sent text from a soulwritten in the dialect of the dying.
For a moment your lungs stop breathing, your heart stops beating— and you remember the moment when your mother died.
Above, on the metal balcony you see a man in the cold sitting in a lawn chair wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt— watching you with reverence or disgust— you can't tell— laughing at you diabolically or sympathetically— it’s hard to see— hard to tell.
He sits in the chair outside his window watching you— then the apartments across the way, where lights flicker on, off, on— as if meaning might surface in the quiet patterns of evening routines. He turns back again, not quite dejected, but quieter now— waiting for someone, anyone, to say something.
You want to say something equal parts apology and tenderness. You can not.
You think you hear the man in the coat says it’s peaceful here— ask you to sit beside him in silence. You don’t reply. You've forgotten how.
From a sewer grate, you see a flicker of light rise— brief, uncertain. The neighborhood store signs begin to shed their letters, one by one, until only color remains— a soft burst of neon against the dark.
You see the bus station a few blocks down. You wonder if the first bus out still runs this late— if it would stop for you as you are now.
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