Past Eight

road amidst bare trees
Whistles silent,
brews stress pinched to the nape.
TV flickers black and white but can’t turn it off.
Frozen mittens dry from the blessed heat,
brings sweat with no one to blame.

Mumbles first, like there’s someone to fight back.
Then, the knee goes,
not worry, just wonder.
Past eight…

…old lady’s not home.

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