Worse Than Their Problems

The city is white.
There's ice everywhere,
and sooner or later you slip
and fall
and crack your head open.
But the ice is covered by fluffy snow,
and ignorance is bliss.

Still, some of us know it's there
underneath all that powder.
All things considered, we'd be better off forgetting,
but we can't.
Every step is dramatic, every moment is our last.

I move carefully along the side of the road, fuzzy lights rushing by
and illuminating the falling white debris.
I pass a hooker shivering on the corner
with purse and knee-high boots
who asks me for a cigarette.
I don't smoke.
I'm afraid she thinks I'm lying.

In a perfect world,
I'd give her a hug
and it would be a cinematic moment of self-discovery for the both of us.
But in the real world,
she'd probably knife me.
And why not?
Who am I to pity?
Where do I get the fucking nerve?

What exactly have I figured out
about the workings of the universe?
What have I learned from books
and movies
and endless thinking?
Bad physics,
and solutions worse than their problems.
Abstract punchlines to dirty jokes.

Liquor store in sight, I keep walking,
nodding respectfully to a bearded man
carrying his possessions
in a garbage bag.
I cross the street carefully,
mindful of the ice.


Copyright Peter Byrne 2010