Migraine and a Half

Head splitting like asphalt

bone under jackhammers,

I-95 broaches me the March usual:

birches with capillary branches

gone rust, agoraphobic lanes,

an endless stretch of stratus

overhead. I never knew that

the sun would open fire, that the fleet

of Canada goose would plunder what balance

was left. Never remembered when my senses

betrayed me. But one begins to seek warmth

in the gray and the gusts slipping through the

window, the humdrum of it. And though

my cheeks grow chapped, there exists a love

for that too---a marriage between what wasn’t

and what will.

Aspirin arrives in small doses after all.