What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (13)

13

That's golden, that digging feeling in your chest,
that whirling and painful grinding of teeth.
The snow falls and you wait patiently, constantly checking your watch,
consistently inconsistent in your pacing, back and forth and back,
deliberately undeliberate in your pacing, forth and back and forth.
Anxiously frowning, the only sting worse than the bite of the frost on your lips.

Her cab never comes. You wait for a few more hours before sighing and giving up,
only to sit looking out the window all night.

That's right; somehow it's colder indoors,
somehow the chill is always worse and the empty fire place frowns,
it hasn't been used for years, it aches like you do,
it cries the sweet memory of Christmases long past,
the glistening orange, the golden heat, the desperately comforting warmth.
It screeches happiness and comfort, it bellows and worries,
it comforts you in its shared sadness. It's empty and alone.

The fake Christmas tree in the corner hangs its head and tries to die,
if only to join in the collective mourning.