Life itself is a near-death experience,
The light at the end of the tunnel
Just the streetlamp at 42nd and Park.
Our ancestors surround us incognito,
Disguised as strangers whom we brush by
Without a second glance.
Winter holds us hostage with a ransom note
Demanding blood and limbs,
And nostalgia is but a form of homesickness.
If only I could read the stage directions
Printed before my lines on the invisible script
That hangs in the freezing air.
I do not think I shall make it to spring.