Your Last Fall

The harsh winds of late October
howl as they tear across his face
like sandpaper. The open front of
the glass bus stop walls frame his view
like a diorama, but face straight
into the gusts of unrelenting autumn air.

The screech and squall of downtown rush
hour traffic is quickly overcome by the
abrasive crunching sound of deadened leaves,
crumbling to brownish dust beneath his feet
and tires. He sits in silence, waiting, breathing
slowly, as the repugnant subway steam from down below
billows up through the sewer grates to fill his nose
and consumes the crisp aromas of the fall.

The setting sun casts a brownish-yellow shadow
over everything, covering the world in sepia tone;
even fallen leaves, once glowing with
immediate transcendence, have turned
a grayish-brown and lost all warmth (have lost all life).

and this was your last fall with him (if it ever were at all).
you said you're scared of the colors and the wind,
afraid their whispers may remind you still of him.

Oct. '06/April '07