Coda

By Josh Mahler

Coda


The snow is not a dream, it falls
and we lower our heads, moving
on in a straight line, the wet roads
and slow traffic, night underway
where one regards the rumble
of the train rolling into L’Enfant
as yet another signal to follow.
We are the foreground sketch
on the city walls, a swirling view
under the blurry moon sharing
its only light with the windows.
I see the workers working late
behind them, the weariness in
their shoulders, leaning forward
filling their hands with a film of
sweat. They report the facts and
calculate their worth. I see them
without them seeing me. I watch
with envy the battles they carry,
like a cracked tooth, a hangnail,
yet I stamp my feet for warmth
and smile relieved that I do not
inherit the work. My day is done
and my breath is stale, the falling
snow reassuring, the fragrance
of blood settling into puddles of
instinct, in the vein, the sound
of the train as I turn and walk on
toward the door, finding my seat,
and the outline of my footprints
remain on the sidewalk, one after
the other, like the minutes turning
and the wind stirring a fresh layer
of dust, like the certainty of nature
in spite of our eyes. We vanish as
a leaf would, succumbing, letting
go like an eyelid falling into sleep,
the dream a heavy coat on my back.

Photo by Dillon Kydd