my hands still smelling of garlic,
I leave early, walking uncertain
on my own two feet
I imagine birds picking at the suet
somewhere else, on a street with
just houses, no bodegas to buy from,
no way for you to punch me in the
mouth with whiskey
ears poking out of our matching hat
I suffer myself as I skate by accident
on the sidewalk past others, undead,
and yet they move with ease
fool half-expects you to run out after
me and apologize for what I never
told you
I have played my hand;
I have sung enough
while the ground begins to thaw
I am just starting to freeze