On the last day of my arrival

It was cold out, frigid

The Bronx air made tears roll down

Wind would cusp my wishes

Snow lined the streets

Procession marched just last week

An empty apartment before me

Decades of nothing now gone

Everything once was so magnificent

So real, so vivid, so warm,

Like a fireplace behind the hearth

No one to phone,

To check the status, to bring in the new

Or to alarm about early departure

No one to slip five, no one to eat lunch

No one to wave goodbye, no one to sleep

Alone with no one

No father, no sister

I reach for the door one last time

I see two hard-boiled eggs in the refrigerator door

© 2009 David Greg Harth

09.12.31.18:13:45@130BklynNYC