Like me, it is hard to love.
It sits in thick crusts
on the sidewalk, licking
its boots. It slumps past
bridges, clicking its teeth,
slipping in slim-fisted ice.
Always it is cold in one way
or another. It is midnight
at midday and moonlight
at dawn, the gray fuzz
of a signal gone wrong.
It gives nothing of itself
being nothing but sweaters
and soot. When you see it
from some snug by the harbour,
when you are sipping
your amber drink, you remember
that your mother will die.
At least it is short enough
to be endless. God ends it
with a roll of the dice.