Scene?
A dimly lit diner:
orange rubber seat covers
dirty windows
black plastic ashtrays
and the fish sandwich too hot to eat
at present, thanks.
Outside? Cold – oh, it’s cold.
Chicago swam with haze
and heat for, say,
four months
then everything
froze.
Now the winds have started up,
sounding like loosely-strung cellos.
Stepping outside is like being
backhanded by a hundred angry ghosts.
Fact: you lost your love.
You lost her two
years ago, true, but still you lost her, time
hasn’t revised that.
Facts have a stubborn way about them,
like women who don’t love you anymore.
Your waitress – time-haunted, eye-shadowed and
very, very blond -
notices your sad halo.
“Cheery up, kid,” she says. “You got nice eyes; that’s more
than most people can say.”
“Do my eyes buy me coffee?”
“No, honey. Only money buys you coffee.”
This waitress
who you’ve come to know is
sharp, time has not worn away her
edge, she is all edge and grace.
Like Chicago: all edge and grace,
but oh, the winter
is hard.