the last rhetorical question

snow in richmond, angled.

where do we dream,
now? i ask, remembering
monday afternoons
that could run through our fingers
like the juice from an overripe

plum. the snow this year
wasn’t as wonder-sunk as the last.
you didn’t dress me up and say
let’s make the most of this.
no, we sat with our backs

to a bar and watched the
flakes fall until they
didn’t. like a disconnect. suddenly
i feel i am stop-gap, filling-
in, badly wrapped

arm-candy. like winter-grass,
pale and limp and persistent.
like the snow that cries, fading.
so i do my dying during
daylight hours, afraid

the neighbors will hear,
call the cops, take
the cat, run. somehow i
am, still; embittered
& embroidered and melting

in what was. you are trim &
full up with prospects & when
you say let’s make the most
of this, it doesn’t sound
the same at all, at all.