Startled by subarctic chills, intruders,
as my alarm screams murder into the calm.
Crawling from my cocoon, I understand:
“I’m feeling under the weather.”
plays from my answering machine, a message
from the sun, called a stone for substitute.
Understanding but not accepting,
my stomach plummeting further and further,
weighing on my toes, as I get closer and closer
to the stone, brick, shell of educated anxieties.
Today I will be cold.

Reluctant fingers, propelled by routine,
extend for the door – interception!
Another, unseen entity, carved from spring mist,
welcomes me, opens the sealed lips
of convention, and directs a ray at me,
thawing a sliver of my countenance
and bathing the cloud of precipitation
above my head in light.
Slightly loftier, my lips part, curl upwards
as I take my assigned place.
I thought he was sick today.



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