Cold Front
By Stephen Reilly
Six months, twenty-nine days
The widower wakes sluggish,
sluggish as a summer snail on a Sunday stroll to nowhere.
But this morning is frigid,
brittle and chilled as any cold front will allow along this latitude.
Hoodies up like cowls
at the Circle K where workmen clutch their coffees almost religiously.
But not a cold like
the cold of her pulse-less wrist and hand the widower still can’t shake.
