The Static Room

He zips his coat with stiff fingers,

shoulders aching from the pack.

Thermos knocks against granola bars—

Blisters bloom along his back.

Snow-wet pine and sharp shale linger,

Rime-ice clinging to each breath.

In this place, wind whispers his name—

Old weight settles in his chest.

~

A porch light is waiting,

waiting as it always had, 

an egg yolk in tender dusk—

at the edge of the world.

She swore to leave it on,

Even when the tea’s gone cold, 

And radio static spits 

Into the dim kitchen. 

~

This chilled climb is his apology,

His answer for words once fled

before the snow hit last November, 

when he slammed the door instead. 

Branches stretch like black lightning bolts,

The moon’s cool, pale face slips through,

Yet, he keeps climbing, to her who waits—

and listens 

in the static room.