i wrote a sulk

(Sulk)

Winter’s half-surrendering, one solitary glove

raised atop a railing. I don’t find it cute. It was still snowing last night

at 4, then in the morning it pattered on my skylight heavier.

Walking against it now, lashed by wind, I wish I could scream a seagull scream.

Walking against it now, hoodied shapes, a broken sunflower print

umbrella, Jews with plastic bags tied over hats. On St Laurent, shopgirls in friperies

steam-iron spring shirts and jeans. New graffiti's sprung like mold

in ruelles, I take the camera out, and my battery whimpers and dies in the cold.

I can’t wait one more week checking météo sites, spelling out

what would make it better: T-shirt weather, canvas shoes, picnics in the park,

a pot of basil in my balcony. I envy  others’ careless certainty

that it will happen, after this build-up of freezing dark days.

Walking against it now, I feel like the flowers that died last week,

righteous and quick to fold.

Everything’s not a metaphor for your life, you say,

and I take it the wrong way.

In a week’s time, when all’s awash in sunlight,

I’ll hold on to the ice shards in my sullen heart.