The morning is a horrid mess of ice covered snow and sleets of cold water
breaking through
the gray of this perpetual morning of all mornings.
I was hoping for a day off;
a day of mooring myself in sheets and covers in a cold room.
There is a dog that does not care about homelessness or bills or school;
hell!
I don’t even think he knows he is even breathing.
No, but he feels it.
That’s one thing that matters when looking out of windows at passing shoes and perched pigeons;
feeling the cold window panes,
the warm breath against the back of your hand,
the condensation collecting at the bottom of your finger tip as you trace your name or someone’s name;
a scribble of running droplets.
Starched sheets covering the lawns
bring me back to waking in fogged mornings and,
as I made my way to school,
stepping on puddles of ice sheets making music with my rubber soles.
Small polyrhythmic compositions that filled my calves with joy and traveled to my ears as they interrupted the sound of my own breath through the vacant streets. Ice floes shift above my head and I inhale the moist air as I balance my body on one leg that sinks into
the crunch under my heel.
About Luc D'allez
I am an ambulant. As of lately, there are nothing but lacunas in my thoughts so I offer some of these in my blog. I enjoy poetry, fiction, and biographical writing among other things.
View all posts by Luc D'allez
Lucas D'Allez 
Gray is a Memory
The morning is a horrid mess of ice covered snow and sleets of cold water
breaking through
the gray of this perpetual morning of all mornings.
I was hoping for a day off;
a day of mooring myself in sheets and covers in a cold room.
There is a dog that does not care about homelessness or bills or school;
hell!
I don’t even think he knows he is even breathing.
No, but he feels it.
That’s one thing that matters when looking out of windows at passing shoes and perched pigeons;
feeling the cold window panes,
the warm breath against the back of your hand,
the condensation collecting at the bottom of your finger tip as you trace your name or someone’s name;
a scribble of running droplets.
Starched sheets covering the lawns
bring me back to waking in fogged mornings and,
as I made my way to school,
stepping on puddles of ice sheets making music with my rubber soles.
Small polyrhythmic compositions that filled my calves with joy and traveled to my ears as they interrupted the sound of my own breath through the vacant streets. Ice floes shift above my head and I inhale the moist air as I balance my body on one leg that sinks into
the crunch under my heel.
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About Luc D'allez