The girl steps into January’s first week.
She shudders through the bluster that preys
on her not-quite-crimson hair
twisting about her chestnut eyes
as her wanting lips accept the cigarette.
She squints with pupils scored by flakes
packed down, a thousand suns against her search.
She longs for the black glasses in the car,
but her other urge stirs her
striving for the blaze in the callous cold
and she is blind,
indifferent to the wind slicing the New Year.
The fugitive lighter laughs in hiding
and her need dangles unlit and loose.
Anxiety prowls like a sick cur
as she pulls away, feeling
for her stainless steel flame.
It’s distress she digs in
and sighs. Then, triumphantly,
she raises the treasure, brings the spark
and she is Teflon, again.
A flash of sub-atomic satisfaction
in the lightening of her eyes and the sun cowers—
pulling a slight gray comfort around the needle air,
where the snow lies frozen
but warming under the purpling sky
where she burns
minutes into hours.
about the author
Andrew Bergeron lives and works in the wilds just north of Downtown Dayton with his giant of a son, Luke, and trusty Pitbull, Rizzo. Currently, he is hatching a plan for world domination involving aliens, robots and zombies.