Morning slid under the curtains -
thin winter light,
cold as an unpaid bill.
Snow dusted Boylston,
a city holding still,
done up for company.
My boots struck puddles
of upside-down angels,
holiday colors trembling
in dirty water.
Newbury Street called me closer -
windows full of want:
scarves coiled like promises,
rings winking at anyone
who’d look back.
I kept my hands in my pockets.
I’d had enough
of touching things
that didn’t feel me.
So I bought Dickens -
a soft-spined ghost story
for a heart not ready
to haunt itself.
Outside Trinity, a vendor
with cracked-red hands
offered heat in a paper cone -
cashews steaming like breath
in the sharp air.
Hot chocolate warmed my ribs.
Snow sifted down slow.
I found a bench in the Common,
coat wrapped tight
as second thoughts.
Bare branches scratched
their signatures across the sky.
Scrooge faced his shadows
while I watched strangers pass -
shoulders hunched, eyes elsewhere.
A girl in a red hat spun
for no reason at all.
A boy dropped crumbs
for birds that chose not to come.
A man cursed into his phone -
language like brake dust.
Pages turned
as quietly as snowfall.
Then - my name, suddenly bright.
Laughter.
Friends with bags and stories
flooding toward me.
We packed ourselves into the car,
engine coughing awake,
and headed west -
Worcester, Springfield,
the Mass Pike unwinding
under our wheels.
Boston dimmed behind us,
holiday lights blinking
like ghosts refusing to leave.
Book warm in my lap,
coat smelling of cocoa and roasted nuts,
I watched the city disappear -
the way memory does
when joy finally arrives.
GBS
2007
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