cold fingers

indeed, i do not dare.

reading jane austen,

at twenty-four, for

myself.

my cold fingers in

an unheated bedroom.

a lonely desk where

no one visits.

slumped in oversized

chairs at crowded

bookstores.

my rings are falling off

because hands are too

tiny now in winter.

the color peach and

no more blossoms;

or raisins, always hidden.

just clocking hours

and watching the little

ones play winnie the pooh.

watching the older ones

grow and singing to myself

in the car on into roseville.

going fast and deep into rain,

into lauren's house, into

small town breweries.

into thinking nothing and

everything. into losing words

and blocking out the things

that make me go sour.

not wishing, not praying,

not hoping; mechanical

and being happy in bed alone

by myself.