you list and lean
hand
against the wall,
a cut of wind
up your pant leg
a slice
of cold between
the buttons
of your shirt
and coat.
the bus is on
the way.
you pray, looking
up and down
the empty boulevard.
your life seems at
times to be a series
of getting from
point b, to point a,
staying warm,
arriving safely
into someone's arms.
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