Where the track stops
there is a moment
of pause,
a deliberate
hesitation,
a silent haze of
insecurity;

the throat
tightens.

Each step is tentative;
push comes to shove,
driving each stumbling
half-fall
forward.

The need to purchase a
one way each day
to the end of the line,
appears embossed on self-same
loose skin ever tightening
as it sags
around this bag of sticks,

withering
in the snow.