By weewilkie

in the chill

still dark morning
in a bed that doesn't fit

to the sofa
and the sound
through the living room wall
of a neighbour's
muffled shouts
and curses

he is alarmed
at the thought of a trip away
his mind
already fog-sodden
not able to see the very person,
the very person of his days

the curses come
violent pokes through the wall
the jagged edge
that cuts
that unleashes
a life shared

in the static park
a faint sound
of birds
being bread-fed
across the frozen pond

and there
through the tangle
of bare branches
puffed up for warmth
burns a fuzzy red heart
lost in the woods
the fog

a dog barks
for its owner

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