Pockets

and who we were back then,
young, fresh, hot but lame,
bleeds into who we are now,
who you were, when you died.

the weatherman says it’s 7 degrees outside
and i am doing laundry
while my wife
helps your wife
in ways i cannot.

we haven’t seen the sun in months.
ambient numbness has locked us in.
within
it’s cold and there is ice.
we curse these dark days,
dream of places where weather won’t offend.

the clothes dryer buzzes.
when i open the door
i’m blanketed by hot air
though the weatherman says it’s 9 degrees outside.

we can’t survive the cold without shelter;
can’t hold back it’s eternal return.
we can only make it through tucked together
inside small pockets of warmth.

Pockets

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