Monday, November 8, 2021

Care slips from our fingers
like flowing brook water,
frigid from the chill of November night
and icy under our skin.

Only our cupped palms, powered
by boilers hidden in dark basements,
caged and clanging, clanging,
can heat it enough to share.

Attempted sleights spill our wares,
a bean stripped of its magic,
air thinned of oxygen,
leaving us empty-handed.