Why I Am Sad

A. G. SOBIN

A. G. SOBIN

WHY I AM SAD

Leaving gothic buildings for home

I choose the sidewalks that wind through

acres of grass where already the dew

has begun to set up like the clear plastic

of death masks, glittering from reflections

of too many streetlights and ultraviolet halos.

Before disappearing, breath hovers overhead-

a medieval soul as once imagined by its peasant.

I remember the weathermen have scheduled

the first hard freeze of the year for tonight

so I pull the heavy white blanket over my body,

stop at the neck and go to sleep imagining

my hand clutching a warm human bone

like the relic of a saint.

In the pink, skin-colored morning

every limp blade of grass in this small

but entire city will be dead and I

will walk out alive and well and happy.