It is a cold night,
and walking beside
the painted white line
on the edge of the grey concrete road,
it sometimes feels like
a draft of wind could
send you backwards flying;
you lurch
and dig your feet in the ground
and find the will to keep walking
your arms wrapped around you to keep warm,
your back arched like a crossbow,
hair rumpled, unwashed,
and eyes bleary,
seeing frames of a disconnected dream,
and dust riddled shoes
plodding on the surface
— all at once
and not at all.
The road meets an intersection
so you stand on the sidewalk
under a lamppost
waiting for something.
There was a shape under the lamppost
and it swayed for a while
and then just disappeared, somebody says
It was a shape, I saw it, they insist
their hands in animated motion pointing at you
What of it? somebody counters.
Nothing. It’s freezing. Let’s go.
They are gone
leaving ‘you’ there
a false memory,
or an existential error.