7am–
The sky is static white, icy as a pond.
Remote, an airliner slips the vista.
A slivered moon hangs late,
full, inglorious, methodical in
its striving after madness.
At year’s turning, winter’s creak
resonates along sidewalk lanes,
beech leaves crunch under work boot Wellingtons.
Illness surrounds, stalks
like a hawk’s hunting sweep,
a coma’s corridor watch.
I see life in abeyance, suspended beyond
an old car’s slow, cold weather spark,
monthly duties to poverty’s debt.
Tomorrow’s features are yesterday’s:
stasis, a doctor’s tempering report,
checks waiting to clear.
The moon, the jet shrink to disappearance.