From My Bedroom Window

Another sedan passes, blue.

A clump of snow falls from a roof

across the street. Downstairs, I hear

the sound all old men make when their

bones sink into old leather chairs.

Two freshly washed black cars splatter

salt and slush onto each other,

but I don’t hear it. I’m listening

to rain plink! against the window

and die against the asphalt where

the children I never had would

scurry like dried leaves sent scraping

pleasantly down the sidewalks

on gusty Halloween nights. Blue

bleeds and blushes; I’ll be called

for supper soon. The street softens,

wilts. I haven’t seen a car in

days. Even the birds acquiesce

and humidity holds the night.

I wish I had family here.

I won’t hear my lover stir from

here. If I hold my ear closer

to the ground, will I hear snowflakes

land? Maybe, once, it would be nice

to not hear a good thing coming.