This is my winter, the unemployment of spring. As breakfast grows cold, toast soggy with jam, the years come closer like resurrecting the ash of burned letters or the way my body articulates the form of past wounds: lost fingertip and an arm like a jerry-rigged hinge, knees of broken glass. Each day in the city, faces blur in mastic frames of passing windows, eyes locking mine, letting go; how on the bus the last riders talk of going home to see what’s cooking with their lovers. Then enter the weight of real or perceived failures as hours inch across my room until the sun slips from cat-crooked blinds, and I walk out to drown in the strange honey of the evening crowd, spun from my orbit like an orphaned grain.
GARY SLOBODA lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in such places as Big Other, Posit, Thrush, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Word for/ Word.