Dispatch #41

The Walk

The Walk

At dusk, the lamps 
flick on behind windows—

that spectral, 
amber glow—
and I’m dizzy 

with nostalgia 
for an almost forgotten dream. 

At dusk, shadows deepen

before they fade, 
engraved

in asphalt 
and old snow
slumped like ash against a curb.

I hold my hands to my face
and breathe into my palms:
Thank God. 

Thank God
for the freezing wind—

my mind stops.