not black but gray-black--shimmering morning
rain slicking its frame still--though broken clouds
have shriveled like worn-out steel wool, warning
of sudden frost and soaked street forming crowds
of black ice poised to foil drowse-eyed drivers
fooled they’ll ease Kavanaugh’s curve, unaware
this guard hoisting high-tentacled divers
arms is hailing them with stiff, silent care
to halt or at least slow down. Hunched under
closed dance school’s awning, February’s fist
punching me in the throat, my hand wanders
out toward old warped bark tower, crack-limbed wrist
flicking brief wave, mute effort to confess
how we both share gnarled roots of loneliness.
Roger Armbrust
February 7, 2009
