Wednesday, January 18, 2006


It was 11 years ago
When I got a phone call
To tell me how you flew
During rush hour
Through the greyest January mist
Into the winter harbor

They say you ran through traffic
Without hesitation
I can feel the fog on your face
I worry about your fear
About the cold

She showed me a prism you held in your pocket
And a bird figurine
With your red hair
Your pale freckled skin
The spitting image of your Mother
Who later fed me pizza from the freezer
Meant for you
And it sat like a stone in my stomach
Like this always will

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

interesting format you've decided to go with here.