My nights pass.
They drive by with halved-hearts
(one ventricle and the rest left
for the dogs).
They remind me of a ticking calendar,
restless and yearning.
One by one by one
the days laugh in my face,
and spit in it
chilling, stinging slush.
My raw skin grows frigid,
melded to muscle–
pins and needles
stuffed into a rag doll
with a real wool hat,
and those undersized mittens
that we have kept for too long
(days when we were naïve and witty and cute).

I trudge my feet through the loose snow,
they leave stripes where they fall.
I am just trying to shape this city,
make it fresh.
My prints resemble an animal print
(like those of the zebras in the zoo,
or of those whores with the patterned panties).
Windows glisten from glares of winter-white light,
from streetlights and flashlights–
crime-detectors.
I can’t return home,
foodies flood my kitchen,
breeding warm, succulent scents:
prime rib, mincemeat pie, and sweet champagne sorbet,
but the numbers are excessive
and overbearing.
There are too many memories there anyway,
stained into that brown chaise.
And she still comes back,
so I won’t.
This is my escape.

I will sleep in the underground tonight.
The benches beckon me,
and hug me,
and offer their heat to me.
I like to watch the ants
as they trail around my feet
in this tepid, temporary haven
(their hills will be renovated,
but for now, they are avalanched by the frosty footsteps
which run down these desolate streets).
I also like to watch the humans.
So frantically they scuttle to and fro,
to get to where they need to go.
After all, festivities and families await,
and God forbids you to be alone
on Christmas Day.