Winter Bones

The bus hissed heat then flung me out,

into air that stung, a sudden shout

of winter’s teeth. I pulled my scarf,

feeling the sharpness of my half-

starved collarbone, those knobs of bone

I’d tried to show, in some far-gone

memory of a bar, too dim,

where I believed my fragile limb,

exposed and stark, beneath a thread-

bare sweater, might catch some dull head.

Fluorescent hum, a plastic cup,

and hoping someone would look up.

Now, just the wind, a bitter blow,

reminding me of what I know:

how cold it gets when you pretend

your angles are enough, my friend.