Black glove left tenuously on the iron fence, what hope have you for warmth again; Begrudged by sniffing old dog noses that reek of boiled bones' decay? A little fingered friend you must have had. Five digits in a balled up fist. An alibi in several strikes On sisters, even chalkboards. Instinct tells me I should wait, for its cold master to return. Kneeling by the front gate now, and whispering to the neighbours dog. One gloved hand unclasps the collar; her one blue finger points at me.
© Eve Redwater 2012