The seasons change. I scrape my nails on brass
doorlocks, frustration raw as last winter’s
scars, and… “IT’S COLD AS HELL!” -Keys lost. Whispers,
profane, go biting bitterly at drags
of wind, and I can hear your stubborn bray.
The couch, reforming, sighs. Your face splinters,
blistering, criticizes. –Rough whiskers
too ironic for joy. “GET OFF YOUR A**!”

If only I could open doors without
you….Stop this crying now. -because soon spring
will come and even if you do let me
in, I won’t wait to crawl through THAT door. Shout
the daises down, your voice vomiting strings
of lies –like warmth when cold is all I see.