the sun is hanging in the fir trees by the collar of its wintry coat.
old people have come out into the park to walk their dogs to its skirt.
the dogs prance and snoop. the people themselves walk at an angle, slanted,
like leaden-limbed mimes on a running belt that’s running
in the opposite direction.
they’re pushing against an invisible pane (pain?…)
they’re pressing ahead, pushing against tomorrow,
while everything hurtles them against yesterday.
they’ve seen it all in their lifetime. fought it all.
now they’re left fighting friction
and gravity.
Writer Between Worlds 