Autumn descended into winter since I last wrote.
There is a still certain light in the evenings of May and June,
Like a dusty hurricane lamp hanging haphazardly over an empty porch,
Thrown by the winds this way and that,
Until the last of scattered leaves departs,
And air stiffens with cold and silence,
You might dream of home;
Hot soup bubbling on the stove,
Smell of thyme and onion and melting candlewax,
Old dog lying in front of the fire-place,
Pine logs sizzling.
You might hear your mother calling you to supper,
Cutting wedges from round bread she baked at the crack of dawn,
Scratching frost from the kitchen window with her fingers, and
Blowing gently into the mouth of an ancient stove stacked neatly,
With newspapers and dray wood shavings.
Until you can no longer bear any of it;
Then, like me, you walk downtown;
Into alleyways where certain establishments let you stay, and
Mix with stage-folk,
Until they make you laugh, and
You forget all of it;
Cold of winter,
Your mother and
The last bastard that broke your heart.