Temperatures

I called in sick, he writes in the early morning; you cross the river with chicken soup and tenderness, it spills out of you helplessly, you do not try to stop it. The late January air is cold but not cruel, you set your alarm for sunrise because at least then you can wake with a smile. Read and re-read the old words, etch into your lungs that it's only a waiting game, that you can force these breaths into your chest until you win it. Some days you believe your own ignorant determination. Some days are harder. But I sat in a Brooklyn bay window today and words appeared on the paper like they were supposed to, like it wasn't a miracle, like I hadn't cut through treacle to reach them, and I think, if the words can continue to dance in innocence,
then so can I.