Crossing over

When fall comes this year, it comes likes a pedestrian shadowing the plane overhead as it crosses Empress and Doris—leisurely, lazily, an old man who will keep us waiting if he wants to.

My hair falls over my front like a ruff again—

I wear pink again; I let myself skip to the keening song of the ice cream truck again

If only to contain that something warm and golden and liquid inside of me.

The biting air craves it with all the eagerness of its thirty-thousand-minute delay.