Chilly Evening Pause by Sarah S.

Winter is the denouement feared by critics.
Steam rises peacefully from under its hood,
It twists under the harsh light like incense
And causes my nose to itch with longing,
Or maybe my tongue. It dances quietly
The stillness, I wish it would slip into my pocket
And bury itself there like Marsalis in New Orleans.
It isn’t really peaceful at all, it has a quick temper
And is ripping through our thin skin
At a constant, negative velocity
Because I left the stove on while solving for “x.”
Everyone knows smart travelers pack lightly,
With bags strapped on their backs and
Sealed ziplocs of responsibility secured around their necks,
They resent the steam and try to silence it.
I struggle to comfort them, knowing they won’t see
The soft steel skidding across the double lines.
I’ll see it even with my eyes squeezed tight in dreams;
Guten nacht, Schatz, schlaf gut.
The seasons stutter and halt at the torrent of applause.