Snow on the eyesore

Last night the first snow fell

not soft but stubborn, clinging

like the white against the grime

on cracked concrete, a chain-link cage.

It melted instantly on broken glass,

a brief touch of quiet where

nobody cared to wash the scars

of spray paint and cigarette burns.

The snow did not disguise,

nor did it soften—no,

it made the ugliness sharper,

a cold truth slipped in by flakes

that would never stay.