Unknown to the small blond boy
in apartment one, the winter
has already scratched with
one cold day and one cold night
the delicate surface of fall
and left the mark of memory
of all winters past. His footsteps
are the determined stomps of
young persistence and I lie
listening until his mother
with the scandinavian eyes
will drive him off to school.
He does not know I am
wrapped above in blankets
nor that one morning everything
will be still and white. Whenever
he sees me his eyes fix and glaze
and I cannot tell if he remembers
I’ve lived in number three
all of his life and heard the early
cries of childhood. I do not know
if his is fear or mild contempt
when he falls silent standing at his door
the strange man smiling about to ascend
suggesting that he too has leverage here
in this child’s teutonic life.

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