November

Watch me, you said,
but I kept my eyes to the battered remnants
of leaves that clung to the
heel
of your foot,
holding on from some winter dampness.

The homeless man stands to
tap dance
with you, a ripped winter coat
half zipped up,
and a brown bottle swaying in his outstretched hand.

The river is frozen now, he tells me.
It’s only November, he says,
wanting me to be outraged.
Or surprised, even.

You take a sip of what he offers.

You had two houses for every one of my homes.

The dome of your fingernail
and wet purple fur at midnight
in the snow
in some silent city.

He takes your hand.
The bottle drops.
I wait for liquid to spill,
but none comes.





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