I left my little dog at home with a single light on, just enough to play with her dolls and bones.
I kiss her goodbye, then slip outside, beneath storm clouds that gathered in a tomb of stone above my head.
I feel the dreary sky’s presence, heavy and lasting.
Dawn will not raise the horizon today, and the lingering darkness cannot be chased away.
Not this morning.
Today it will be gray.
My umbrella’s spindly arms shelter me from the drizzle, yet droplets nip my naked ankles, staining my red shoes darker, malignant.
Onto the bus that drives through the curling, black tunnel.
Off I go!
The fabric seats are bristly as a I sit, then slump.
The pinpoint of daylight at my back narrows, then disappears, and I am alone inside the tunnel amongst strangers and taillights.
A weak light.
My senses are overflowing with steel fences, cement, pavement and iron curbs.
I drift past the terminal with brown ceramic tiles and puffy faced crowds bumping and bristling at the mouth of the subway.
On this gray day everlasting, I’m here.
And I can think only of my dog and her light.