Where Are You Agnes?
The frozen tundra that is now Queens
has caused her to have
quicksanded into a corner in Corona.
The blizzard leaving remains of
a frigid statue waiting to be blown away.
The numbing started with the first frost,
entering through the hole of a navy sneaker,
with minute crystalline pricking
up the arms.
A glittering icicle nipping and pirahnaing
through the neck without reproach.
No alms, charity or relief
on New Year’s Eve.
Just a foul storefront
which would double as a mirror
if not for the constant waft
of breath thrown back
from a cerulean glass barrier.
Turn the corner.
Jumping the weathered cracks from the sidewalks,
beginning to falcon over the ice sheet
that has been the street.
A crackling fire
would be much more enthused
to sizzle and seethe a flame
with cloudy ashes of marshmallow
in a stoned marble fireplace,
rather than the intersection of
the train tracks and the bodega.
seizure inducing neon lights
comatose her into disbelief.
This could save hours of scouring for
another toasty sanctuary.
The ambulance-like rave flickering
lights beg her to slam the frozen through
this could be barber or discotec.
This flash of red hot, carnelian anger is the most
relief we can get as of now.
First anger, to motivate the drive for change.
The heat seeps from a hair follicle back all
the way down to the now numb, purple toe.
The radiating furnace of disdain lodged in her stomach
creates enough warmth
to pump oxygen
back into once rosy rimmed cheeks.
It’s much easier to shield from the frost after recognition.
twirling away from the
We’re Open sign,
she continues her trek to anywhere
for a Mother Theresa to appear
between crowded cracks
of a Queens sidewalk.