The dusty light
Filters through ancient trees
At the snow before
Touching ground. I stand
At the corner of Spring and Mulberry,
A bar at eight in the morning
Sun lighting sailor stripes.
An old man leans, laughing
Over his beer, hands waving
In the dusty light.
I am not beside him;
Outside in the cold
I plant foot to heel in mucky snow
On towards Broome.