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Monday morning, 5 a.m.
quiet pre-workday winter
and breath freezing cold
as your kitchen floor.
In rooms asleep
a child dependent
kidnapping your time,
a pregnant wife and
her vomit of tears.
Out the dark window
the black street, the
white still shell of
sleep on the snow.
You wonder,
if you could melt the
light fall of snowflake
with just your breath
lying back-down naked
on the front lawn;
how long it would take
to completely cover you,
only the occasional puff
of steam where your mouth
makes a hole;
and what if they didn't
find you till Spring?
You wonder
if the snow would mind,
if the ground
would care,
if the grass beneath you
would hold you
responsible?
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