The little historic gingerbread houses
that line the streets envelope real people
with multitudinous thoughts, the walls heavy
with dreams and echoes of conversations –
words of love and discipline, discussions long
into the night.
In some windows, the prominent blue of TV screens
and in one, a menorah. The dusk makes visible
the diners at their tables, the scholar at his books.
I pass by, unseen, my boot-shod feet adjusting
to hardened snow on concrete, slick patches of ice.
I carry in my arms a sack of groceries, the contents
preserved in the chill.
We are so lonely in our cells.
So much transpires on the cracked and crooked
sidewalks of this district, unnoticed by those
who lock their doors against the masses.
I turn into my alley. The empty bottles are gone.
Some scavenging peasant carted them away,
delighted by his find. I unlock the door and warmth
and the particular scent of myself greets me.
My birds chirp a welcome.
I lock the door behind me, security lights ablaze.
I am safe, I am home.
From the avenue, a drunken curse erupts
in the air, a blade gleams against flesh,
fodder for the morning papers.
I fill my fridge and start the stove, comfortable
in my soon-to-be-satiated hunger.
A siren screams in the distance, the song
of disaster. I set my place with cutlery,
ignorning the phone with its plea for donations.
Somewhere in some cheap room my ghost smokes
On a sagging bed, stale bread and cheap tea
Sinking in her stomach.
How can I betray her?
My blinds down against the night’s witnesses,
My Buddha covered in dust.
For old time’s sake I offer a prostration,
A morsel of food, my memories wafting
Like clouds ‘cross my mind, or footprints
By the dumpster, strangely ending
On this cold winter night.
ky perraun recently released the broadside, Mutual Meditations, with fellow poet Ronald Kurt. She has been published, broadcast and recorded in various media, including Standing Together: Women Speak Out About Violence and Abuse, and twig. She is a previous contributor to The Prairie Journal.