Eleven

By POP

It’s eleven and I’ve just walked across

the high bridge over Sheaf Street.

The last leaves have fallen

and the bare branches mourn their loss.

I’m leaning back against the railing, eyes wide open

and its cold bar presses against my skin

through the layers of clothing

as I stare above the jagged ocean

of melted snow freezing over again.

It’s eleven and I’m waiting

here for something to come

but there’s just a woman walking past

all wrapped up warm and carrying

take-away that smells like my favourite dish from home.

Her dog bounces and barks

splashing

his paws in snow puddles that turn to foam

but never last.

The wind picks up and slashes at

the skin on my cheeks

and carries the dog’s wet fur’s smell

over the tram that rambles on along the tracks.

Against my ears my hat

scratches and the cold sneaks

past my chapped lips where snowflakes tell

a story along the cracks.

Cars roar and screech under the bridge like the cat

that lives nearby and seeks

pats and purrs so well

when you stop to give him snacks.

The snow starts to fall again

and I open my mouth to taste the snowflakes against

my tongue, cold and bland and numbing

hitting my face like the flag flapping

in the distance.

Blackberry lip balm thick like syrup

applied shakily as I step away

from the bannister and play

with the cheeky flakes, so sly,

that dance between my

cold fingers, red and paralysed,

a ballet improvised.

It’s eleven and I rejoice

in the crisp snow

as I make my way back down

left with no choice

but to smile at the night

that I don’t have to fight

any more.