after sun fall

So it’s dark and
I’m standing on a rough patch of ice
lifting bags of groceries
into the trunk of our car.
The black glove of sky
clenches down on the embers
glowing from a few shop windows.
Ice wind nips one eye:
“Let’s hurry home,” she says;
“I want to start supper.”
The steel cold that
grips the parking lot
threatens to rip it off into the sky.
I want us to go home.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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