You Be the Judge

“I like oranges,” she says, again,
midnight hair thrown back,
amber eyes flashing.
I had heard her, the first time.

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I search
for left
hands in
a bin
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I dreamed last that you came to visit,
that you had something important to tell.
I was busy stocking shelves at the store,
and asked you to wait for a few minutes.

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The doorway facing me allows a slivered
fractional view of a streetside window.
Through the left lower corner, a sign
across the way warns, No Trespassing.

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“It’s cold out there, Greg.”
~Iditarod Red Lantern Award Winner Bill Mackey

The mercury read two below zero when I left Twisp.
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Saltwater sloshes at my puttee-clad boots
as I sway beside my brother, the lieutenant.
His son, nearby, is propped on an elbow,
smoking in a crowded bunk at the sally port.

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This place used to be alive. I can feel it.
The walls of the cliffs ascend beyond sight,
and the shadows engulf me as I walk.
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Descended smoke thick as Beijing smog
Cell phone coverage and landlines out
All ties cut to the world-wide web
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The water fountain
at All Saints Church
is built for children.
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