snow flurries —
a new gray hair
in my beard

more snow in the forecast —
a third cup of coffee

snow in the forecast
I’ve misplaced
my will

dirty snow —
I open up
a rollover IRA

when I was yesterday

when I was yesterday
I dreamed
the radio kept playing
the same damned song.
Did the DJ die,
or is a random five-minute slice of my life
stuck
in an infinite loop?
I stared at my reflection
in a broken storefront window
holding a dozen wilted roses
squeezing the thorns
tightly.

January thaw

January thaw —
we crack open
the good wine

you are mine and yet

you are mine and yet
you are not mine
in that I don’t
and never will
own you
even though
you will always own
the part of me
that sighs and longs
and slowly dies
every time
you go away.