257/365: 17 Years

cold Lake Winnipeg ice

Caught in the threads of an old timeline —
fall or spring, whenever the air was crisp —
and I am back to heavy books
and toothpick races to the gutter,
anachronistic even then,
satchel slung crossways,
cheap tights creeping,
discount bin tuna dry on toast,
afternoons spread for days
across coffee shops
and art notebooks and Drum tobacco,
the stiffness of surplus parade boots
as fall finally gave in.
It almost makes me hope for the first ice
with its bright bootheel crack
as I step to the street.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com