Nov.2,2024 Poem by Russell Dupont

NOV.2,2024

Orange October,
like a russet leaf,
has fallen and lies crumpled
on the ground.

The house is chilled
this morning and,
nudging the air aside,
I move from cold room
to cold room, taking stock,
making marks in the dust
on the furniture.

There is a fine melancholy
to this waiting, this anticipation
that brings on a twitch, a shivering.

Outside, men in grey drift by,
heads down, hands stuffed
into jacket pockets.

I don't want to think
of another season passing.
I don't want to think
of the raw drafts
that bleed through the cracks
in this old house,
reminding me
that as winter approaches,
a bleak darkness awaits.

I don't want to think about it.
At all.