Scenes from November

Paw firmly pressed against glass window, hanging on with the force of his fingerprints. Wishing the glass fuller, the rain less cold and furious, his scarf less tight around his ears and the woman next to him some other someone with more interesting ideas and a shorter shopping list and a clothing style that solicited envy.

Yelled conversation into cell phone, a soulful request to download some of the worst music 1988 offered spit through braces and bouncing off bright blue hat. Someone says fuck it and starts smoking right on the bus, sucking down two full hits before the driver barks orders against him. Nicotine flowers my brain’s fire.

Challenged to remember what I did before this month shallow-graved me, what swashbuckled, patched and arg-barked my ship pirate before all slowed to standing water. Were my hands warm?

If I can wait out wet solstice sun will slow-banish dark and full moon will burn without veils through plastic. If I can wrestle my way up to snow level and stare at god-perch peaks or escape short-sleeved into desert orange, November could choke on her turkey. December could mistletoe drown.

Weaving love-me-nots with grandmother memory, a single stitch summoned again and again, winding uneven path to warm. Outside rain continues while I wither, alarm beeps to deepen sleep and funnel sorrow into dream.

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