The first cold morning, the little pumpkins lined up at the corner market, and
the girl walks along Hudson Street to school and doesn’t look back.
The old sorrow blows in with the scent of wood smoke
as I walk up the five flights to our apartment and lean hard against
the broken dishwasher so it will run. Then it comes to me: Yes I’ll die,
so will everyone, so has everyone. It’s what we have in common.
And for a moment, the sorrow ceased, and I saw that it hadn’t been sorrow
after all, but loneliness, and for a few moments, it was gone.