The Dead Day

It is a dead day today, the day is dead
grey it is and still, the trees hang heavy, unmoving
the air is cold, unmoving
the streets are wet with winter

It is a dead day today and I am heavy
there is no warmth or energy
my place quiet, unfilled
my paths are dry with drought

It is a dead day today and life ebbs
the dregs of autumn hang and drop
as shredded leaves, dirty and corner-gathered
silting the streets with season and time

The concrete ignores, splitting just a
fraction every year, unyielding in rain
or sun.  The squat city is stout, uncaring
of dead days or leaves.  It lives.

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