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cold calling. hard sales. cold feet
standing on top of salt, preparing for tomorrow's storm. nothing colder than commission. already got $9.00 out of me in metrocard fares. two bottles of juice, outside
at the bottom of basement steps. nature's personal fridge, "god keeps things cold for me." crisp, cold winter
air blocks the scent of smoke five blocks away. watching the neon green
numbers move forward, my feet still cold from last night. Nothing takes on Wall Street.
Cotton ball sized snow flakes never made it to the ground. In Queens, what was gray was now white. We always get the backlash. snow flurries hovering
too cold to stick, too hot to stick; death dances mid-air. the sun dipped low, peeked
between the elevated tracks to the space between our hands, separated. the light shines the same
behind the curtains, behind my eyelids. red velvet softness, the light i use to find your red velvet lips. indentations on cheek
and arm from headphone wires. the grooves, perfect hiding place for tears. rain drops declared war
on the blizzard's remains, chased away dirty snow piles to their graves in the cracks of worn out new york pavements. it's going to be a long night. |
Christina D. RodriguezA Latinx poet and entrepreneur who blogs about poetry, music, writing, and life. Archives
April 2019
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