Ah, look at me,
fool in his seat, his warmth.
The headlights glare at nothing
and the crisp December air
curls upward and over the windows,
steaming me in.
A shopping cart rolls on past,
and hundreds of bright golden eyes
sing by
in streaks of color, streaks of light.
Ah, look at me now,
Hanna.
Look how my hands
rest here on my legs, look
at my fingernail beds,
short, jagged and raw.
Look at me
burning in pride,
withering in shame.
Our silence is a deafening one,
and I wonder
do you listen
as I mouth the words
you know by
heart, by
hand?
Ah, look at me,
fool in the night,
alone.
Isn’t it
lovely;
aren’t I
grand.
11/29/2014
North Vancouver