The city is smudged monochrome
like old newsprint, snow falls like ash.
When my breath smokes in the air
it’s the carbon monoxide of cars.
The wheels of my suitcase skid on ice,
I’m trying to get away, south,
to sugared fields of sugar beet,
where books are shelved,
Not stacked, sliding like decks of cards.
As they are in my grubby flat,
overlooked by gargoyles, whose acid rain
scarred eyes assure me of cancelled trains,
as downy grey flakes keep falling on the lines,
filling the spaces between railway sleepers.