Dispatch #132

No Omen

No Omen 


Memory’s a husk 
hung to dry 
in sunbeams 
latticed over 
a parking lot
snowbank. 
Crushed Coke
can lodged 
at the peak. 
A shadow that 
would claim me
rocks on its heels 
by a pile of slush. 
But the weather 
is heavier 
than superstition,
and I am unburdened. 
I is a husk,
a witness, 
mere consciousness 
navigating the edge 
of the cusp 
of spring.