Sydney waits for me in Crowfoot Coffee House.
The chairs in the shop huddle for warmth
as snow blurs the scene of passing cars outside the window.
Through the wall of glass, vehicles melt into blurs and streaks
of red and blue, cutting through the curtain of falling white.
She sits. I drive with fogged windows, slipping tires, and
air blasting but failing to heat. Outside of the coffee house,
the snow looks comfortable and warm.
My jacket is a shelter from eyes, not the cold.
From inside the shop come hues of orange and red
emitted by a fire worshipped like a pagan god.
Snow touches my lips and crowns my head while
whispering in my ear to join in its falling song.
I don’t know how to play that yet.
Around me, the city crumbles into white oblivion.
The graceful bulldozer of time pushes memories
that shower me with forgotten wishes and regrets.
My shower was cold today, so I will not find love.
