The Cure for November
I miss the turn to the grocery store
following the moon.
it isnít even dusk yet, but there she
is, full and low
rising above Lowry Hill.
Steeples and clouds are enough to hide
Oaks, still in leaf, the corner of the
A boy I knew in college once lived in.
I look to the attic window, expect to
Him standing there, a mop of black hair
The still world waiting for him.
Seems not even hunger,
or the fear of hibernation, can keep
my heart from migrating.
I pull into the parking lot, let
The song on the radio, finish. Blow
into my hands, rub them together.
Try to remember what it is
Iíve come here for.