when snow is expected
it’s giving snow and though
the dark is deep as wet
coffee grounds there’s also
a street light and the road
beneath it is dry, the cracked
tar yawning.
That, yes, but I'm looking
at the room in
between where all the swirl
happens and the wind
while I watch from a window
watch and watch some more
the way some woman might have
watched at that old train depot
just beyond
under another light
she might have heard
every car opening and closing
the way she hears her lungs do
with the bit of winter between
her teeth. She breathes
and sighs once more
before turning but not
completely--just one more
over the shoulder has it
begun yet look and it has not
but it will it will
he’ll be on the next train
she’s sure of it.
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