By WILLOW PINKERTON,
Icy morning in your bulky, half ugly orange sweater,
You were already out in the cold.
Nestled between afghans and frosted window now, you think of the letter.
You cup a cracked china mug, the lemon tea like gold,
He wasn’t the one you needed.
Who excavates for hearts and leaves them unsold?
The cat sits attentive on something, forgotten what he pleaded,
A severed fig on the table, acquainted with the pomegranates.
Antique alarm clock, unused but a bit conceited.
You remember the laughs, the promised calculates
When you had the silly confidence to flatter
Until now it was all you could want, brewing the antidotes.
Even though you are as mad as a hatter,
These are the days that matter.