Splittings

and when he looks out the window each morning,
he will see gray sky scrapers that block direct sunlight
from seeping through the room.
looks at the blank stares from souls draped in coats
on daily subway rides,
spilling coffee from tripping on cracked sidewalks.

day
after
day.

They danced once.
the room was hot and muggy;
August air.
smiling, wine-stained lips.
they laughed
and wrapped each other in their arms
tightly,
holding on to the night.

she sits in Jersey traffic smiling mildly to the man
collecting her toll.
morning weather reports play on her radio,
windows frosted.
exploring new routes,
giving a new face a buck fifty for her coffee.
her shoes are worn out and she will never slip on icy streets.

day
after
day.