Charles B. Snoad

Sixty degrees in Chicago, early March. A light breeze blows in all
directions. My neighbor says spring is close, and I believe her.
I want to talk about loneliness. For now, we discuss the weather.

Out of the blue, I announce I’m a poet, a student of language.
I list the names of all God’s creatures, explain why our bodies
contain the same amount of ash and dust, but different degrees

of pain and pleasure. A light breeze scatters. Every day, people
everywhere experience all types of weather. And by weather,
I mean loneliness, the heart of sadness. Ash and dust. Scattered.