There’s a face from Bayug Island

I’ve never met that brings more light

than the crowded smiles everyday

empty as Christmas streets

where my key bends in the frozen

lock of my car. I grit my teeth

and think of the warm breeze

of a tricycad ride and the way

the world is upside down for us

all. On my way from a Pan-Asian

buffet (the only place open) the skies

turn pink as Bing Crosby leaves

my head and the tastes of

soy sauce and ginger remain.

The spider webs of last summer

welcome me to the porch as I notice

the silence of the city for the first time

and stand, waiting for a car,

anything. All that comes is a chill,

as much from the inside as out,

and the drifting, distant thought

of a hand held across a quiet

bridge that’s been there since her

Papa was a boy. It hangs over my

slow suicides and whispers

“keep walking.”