The Sunday sun melts away and the path is there
on sidewalk squares liken to rail road tracks but to where?
Each step I muster under fragile and weakened knees
to the guide of my cigarette chimney trailing behind the breeze.
Under the night's sky portends a map, a traveler’s kind;
the bear, a canine, the belt of a fabled hero brings solace to mind.
The engine fuel fumes by my light that falters - my stomach growling
each step now a hustling staccato by sounds of stray dog’s howling.
As cars pass, as neighbors glare at the wanderer going somewhere,
I turn a left with a quickened cadence to that my instinct dares.
And suddenly the cold clasps hold my breath; I cross my arms and quiver...
Stand fast and lay here lest the Sun waken amidst the frigid November.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem