Obscurity and Snow

Everything would be closed. He got up late.
He wanted to stop smoking.
He dedicated himself to a different path.
He needed some air. It was.
A mean 15°. Outages expected. Wind gusting.
45mph. She was one car wreck
after another. She needed.
Everyone to feel sorry for her. She got it
from her father. The bad.
Dad. The biological one. Malignant.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Not today. He could always go to the law.
School. He could move. He.
Could always. Teach English. He was going.
To get rid of stuff. Yes. He.
Needed something to go to. A direction.
As they say. Now that.
His friend. His only friend was dead.
Asphyxiated. Or. He was.
Not. Going to think. Now about that. Not
now. He had too many shirts.
Too many books. No one wanted. His.
Books. Stolen. Books. Lost.
Unreturned. Books. Bought and paid for.
Scribbled in. Dog-eared.
Smoke-soaked. Booze-oozing. His clothes.
Replicas of replicas. He smelled
vanilla. Where was vanilla coming from.
Where does vanilla come from.
Orchids. Now he remembered. Mexico.
The last time he was there.
Last spring. He was running. He was lost.
Sort of. Lost. When he started.
He was going to run until he found
a place to get huevos.
Frijoles. And a chocolate. So he ran.
His shoes were new. He felt
fleet. He wasn’t going back. He was.
Not going to turn around.
This park. He knew it. This jardín. Path.
Fountain. With La Malincha.
Holding a jug aloft at each breast. Water.
Streaming. Jugs. Breasts.
Milk. Lágrimas. Sangre. This is Mexico.
And there were those waxen
flat-petaled blossoms. Orchids. Vanilla.
Of course. Right on his path. His
apartment. Stifling. Silvery paint-flaking
radiators. The perpetually empty
fridge. Solid white. Outside.
He heard. Himself. Then. The rats. A family.
Of them. He heard. If you write
to them. If you write. A letter to them. Then.
Seal it with butter. They will go.