Cold. The bird clock calls me out but I won’t leave the piles of strewn handmade blankets, comforters and Afghans that litter the bed.
Morning is here with the grinding beans and hot water. The hour is an hour late, but the breath still fills the air. The newspaper rest where I heard it hit at five in the morning’s darkness, but I won’t read about the strange dreams that drooled on my pillows.
Away, must move, to the store to retrieve images of reconstruction, but instead of riding, due to the cold, I walk.
In the mall, I meet my old boss who greets me with a smile and a hug like old family friends. Small talk and chit-chat about the advertising manager who has left, not to my surprise, but to her chagrin. An uncomfortable yet a moment in time, until I pressed on and it was forgotten.
Picking up captured reflections of early winter, I wander through stores, trying to stay away from isles filled with confused faces.
Thinking hunger might be the next decision; I journey through packed mobile lot with almost melted water where she dropped. Up to the main drag, following homeless fitting her pink backpack and asking for cigs, I pass the burger joint, without stopping due to the stack of mobile machines waiting in line to order their greasy heart stoppers.
Walking pass the music store, I do not stop, but view in the window. They disappointed me before, so I didn’t enter.
Home. A few quick sips, then up the 13 steps.
An evening of Pattie Smith’s poetry and thoughts of the Libbie “Johnny and the T-Room Boys”, photos of a pregnant girl scout, early insurance and bills not paid, shred the past and save a few for tomorrow.
And tomorrow will be the last day.