In the Cold

In the Cold

Mark Coleman

  The rain washes away what remains of the child’s smile, and all that’s left behind is the man. Bent over. Catching bits of the past in his pockets. Straightening up to meet the woman whose eyes seek to console, but whose heart beats in time to another.

  The kindred under the neon “Jesus Saves’.” Standing in bread lines. Palming crumbs for the long days ahead. Army coats soiled and muddied. Bedraggled strands of hair splitting vision in two. Beards sloppily slapped on. Tin cups shaking blind dimes together. The street musician rusting. The guitar begging. The chords lost.

  An ambulance’s lights going out as it turns the corner after cutting off a few cars. Leaning in a doorway. Locking lips. Hand running through her locks. The perfume you can taste.  Her gloss glittering your lips on contact. Walking past a park transformed and enchanted in the twilight. Swings like phantom limbs reaching back to schoolyard romances. Innocence and that chest pain that did not signal cardiac arrest.

  A bed disheveled, and losing corporeal form after prolonged bouts of lovemaking. Candied pillowcases with an auburn wisp or two left behind to compete in magnificence with the few rays of sunlight that manage to force their way through the blinds. A bottle on the dresser losing its volume. A book laying open to a page with a passage you had read to her. Underlined by passion.

  Booths in the back of restaurants where the waiters let you be. Flash bulbs at the scene when flashed forward, but here only mood lighting. Excruciatingly slow Mondays in the office with the calendar like a game of Tic-Tac-Toe. The X’s leading to the O’s. The dance floor like a beached whale. Jonah finding a flute to pass the three. Trying to paste back the shorn hair. More stubble on the cheek.

  On the corner with a tinny cricket in the branch drooped over the fence. The stop sign at the end of the road far too red. Dripping on the sidewalk. Applying pressure to the wound. Traffic lights too quick to change. Puddles too quick to reflect. A boot coming down, and wiping away the wearied face with the same eyes as you. Heavy hearted. Hands limped and dwarfing.

  Loneliness turning to a sob in the throat. Trouts thrown back, but unable to find the river. The sundress clinging and changing colors. Whimsical kaleidoscoping. Whispering in one another’s ears. Biting the lobes occasionally. An earring taken between the teeth which playfully tug. Tip of the tongue sliding along the loop. Scent of Chanel and her sex. The throbbing that synchronizes.

  Lying there, staring at the ceiling, fancying that you can see the sky beyond. Toes curled up under the covers. Resting hand in hand. Pining for someone in your arms. A waltz with delirium and the sister of a friend. Trembling lips that lack the courage to consummate. Wanting nothing more than to kiss her.

   Her absence knifing at your heart. Ailing intermissions. Interrupted. Fracturing out. Broken ashtrays. Mirrors hung as crooked on the walls as your dreams on the crescent up there among the stars.

  Kids out hopscotching beneath parental umbrellas. Marbles and Hula-hoops. Saturn with its rings grown wider and further apart. A doorbell forgetting its function. The inhabitants unaware that someone stands in the shelter of the porch. The boards all warped. Bowlegged and unwanted. Tie with a sloppy knot. Or maybe just a clip-on. Pants with a wiped-out crease. Nothing much to look at. The yawn excusing the arm around the shoulders. Mindful of the popcorn bucket.

 Exhaustion in the back seat. Fogged windows. Perspiration clinging to the brow. Parked up the hill with the city spread out below. Lit up like a Christmas tree. The advent chocolates half melted in the moonlight.  The weeping willows hiding feral cats, and pianos with missing teeth. The heat waves streaking desert asphault in the morning. Compulsive daytrip. Odds seeming good.

  Socials forcing adolescent backs up against the wall. Spiked punch bowls bleeding into soup kitchens. Courageous girls grabbing a boy here and there. Whores in the homeless bar drinking away their fathers. Winos in the library waiting for the storm to pass. But the clouds keep gathering. Piling on top of one another. A man taking a deep breath as his foot leaves the curb. The bus swerving, but not missing.