Testo Grace General

Cruel snow, cracked lips, sun lost by 4.
Cold winces through the cardboard window
where the cobblestone was smashed into glass,
and the bare bulb of moon swings over Portage Avenue,
lights the icy ruts they sprinkled with sand,
down the dim hall of chain stores to Grace,
where the parking lot is full again
and I don't bother locking up. The face, before the doors slide apart,
is hers, the day they took away the candy
and left gift-shop tulips to frame her alarmed,
"What will I do now?" What will I do now?
What will I do now? What will I do now?