On Trade Street, my cheeks ruddy in November wind.
I walk and wonder, "Will mother's death be lightning,
or slow whither?" when the thud from a sudden gust
startles me from my melancholy daydream.

Cloud bellies, purple and blue, glide
and shadow the pavement, slow gray barges
that drag brittle, clicking leaves to collect at the curb
where I break stride to crunch a pile with my boot.

Then I see him shuffle, well up the walkway,
this bewhiskered nosferatu, so
I harden my face to prevent his asking,
harden my heart to prevent my giving.
We cross at the cake shop.

With a clear drip hung from the end of his nose,
in somber tones, "Sir, can you spare some change?"
his sad eyes peer from beneath a soiled knit hat.
This sadness breaks the spell, I relax, hand him a five.

With "Thank you," and "Good Luck,"
our bit of business concludes.

With coffee, it is comfortable
on the splintered bench that faces the sun.
I look at the rays spilling around a cloud,
all related, I try and trace them to their source.

04/06/2005

Author's Note: Spokes from the hub (Ra!).

Posted on 04/06/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill