A WINTER’S TALE

Head down, a man sits on the frozen asphalt.

When he looks up, I see he’s younger than my girls.

A scar divides his face from his forehead

down the left cheek. A whip. A sword. Knife in the dark.

A right-handed assailant from the looks of it.

Our eyes meet but he says nothing. Doesn’t move.

I carry in my bra a fifty-dollar bill for emergencies

still warm when my hand touches his, avoiding the beggar’s cup.

Like all journeying children, he wants to know

are we there yet? When will we be home?

PUBLISHED IN DOUBLY MAD JOURNAL, February, 2023