Three to Twenty-Two

The seasons have flipped

sudden as a switch.

When I clocked in, it was three degrees

By clock-out, twenty-two.

Thumbs through backpack straps

overgrown schoolkid

sense the cautious bud-like stirring

of something akin to hope.

Blossom confetti breeze

sultry future warmth

and I feel strong in myself, and young.

Men out of winter hibernation

where passions were laid low

fix me with ember eyes.

Wir warten auf grün.

I took your tiny picture

out of my heart-shaped locket.

It will be a Kerouac summer.

Home

to eat two types of afters

in my unfinished home

through the estate, which retains

the cold frigid sadness of vacated spaces.