October 23rd

The sun glares
angry, toad like in the sky,
fierce and impotent.
It's rage cannot reach me.
Here it is cold,

The wind winnows through boughs,
whistles against chain links and wriggly tin.
It seems to coat the skin in a dry ice.
A hoarfrost that crawls under clothes,

wrinkled jeans,
second hand sweater,
crusty crinkled socks
and crumbling shoes.

A man on a yellow bicycle
rides with the pace of a man going nowhere.
In a way I can relate,
I think to myself,

as the cold seeps into my chest
through the chill breeze
and into my legs
through the frigid ground.

My long lost friend Patrick
screaming in my ear about
pieces of my anatomy
that broke years ago.

Yellow leaves flip,
like cigarette butts from car windows,
tumbling down the 99.
Trapped by a sudden gust,
they are crushed
beneath car tires...

It suddenly occurs to me
that they remind me of the man 

on the yellow bicycle.

That he is the leaves,

and the car is death

and that the wind is God. 

By: Torrin A. Greathouse

Reviews

[Adam Clay]

a captivating poem that force imagination of melancholy. Interesting metaphors