the bird flew

[lyssarella]

instead of trying to figure out
how to say it in French
i shut
my mouth
began to show with my hands
what i had been trying to say
and couldn't

the march or april
can't tell which
days with a disinterested wind
knocking cold into pockets of
unmasked skin
i wear headphones like earmuffs
because i don't want to hear
what anyone on the street
could possibly say

is it cold because i told you
it was freezing
or is it just
windy
and i don't want to be alone?

chipped off paint and
faded newsprint
pass a street that used to hold
ten million different kinds of
meaning
and now its just
groceries facing other groceries
the clashing color of the awnings
want to prove you wrong
more than they want to
be right