Whiplash

Whiplash

Without warning, white swallows the orange flush, Fall to Winter.

Hard leaves sog and drown under the stifling weight of melting snow,

the air crisps and settles against the crowd.

Buses halt, and subways take the burden of commute.

We press together in heated cars, hands fold to chests, as bodies warm against bodies,

and dissociate as we’re carried home.

Black umbrellas and puffy hoods keep the snowflakes from dribbling down our hair.

Everyone doubles in size and worry, wool socks crammed into old Doc Martins,

funny, how alone I still feel.

Water infiltrates between eyelashes, turning the crowd to rainbow droplets.

Sweat builds against scarves snaking our necks,

jaws quiver and shoulders rise against the relentless chill.

Though animals, we don’t tend to think of fleeing the cold,

mice burrow, birds fly, and insects sleep.

Where do the pigeons go without migration patterns?

Sidewalks harden into pearl-slick routes.

Snow drifts arch and tease passersby with the potential of collapse,

and the bustling city stays passive.

What once was warm and swarming has grown a cool blue.

We catch a glimpse of the twinkling lights that keep us safe from melancholy,

and as we wait for the earth to thaw,

we’ll try feeling human.

Think positive, the glaring advertisements announce.

Soon we’ll hang up the stockings

Soon you’ll remember to think of your family

and think only merry thoughts—

lest we fall prey to the heaviness of the dark.