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.

Finally.

The ambulance-like

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.

Last move:

twirling away from the

We’re Open sign,

she continues her trek to anywhere

but there.

She’s waiting,

wondering,

wishing,

for a Mother Theresa to appear

between crowded cracks

of a Queens sidewalk.

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