She throws the words down and

They scatter on the cold pavement


I pick them up, the ones I can find

And put them in my jacket pocket


Later, in the cafe

I put them on one of the tables and

Reassemble them

Trying to make sense of her mind

Her broken heart


I cannot find her

She does not want to be found

I must be patient

But that’s hard to do

On a day like this when

The winter wind makes icicles

In my beard

And I have to put my anorak hood up

Just to make it to the mailbox




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