On the Corner of Central and Hell
November 20, 2012
Protected: On Being a Critic, Sort Of
November 24, 2012

Mornings, I’ll crawl out from white down blankets
Moaning, a chrysalis slaked by warmth;
And with a hot jog of tea in one hand,
A griddled and sloppy egg sandwich in the other,
I’ll cry “Saturday!” upon a leather-bound couch.
With sighs lamenting snow obscuring alleyways—
Its crested back diverting sidewalks and the
Homeless thieves who take from garbage cans;
With curdled smiles at the postman capped in white,
These days are not forever—thanks be to God.

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