the last of the leaves leaves beat in the snowy wind at 7 am it's still crisp out and the air hurts your face but after a workout the cold feels good on your bursting skin and pumped up veins so you pace the park as you've been doing lately, alone, and watch the nothingness unfold at this hour it's only proper adults with lives together walking their dogs and the homeless huddled in heroin alley who pace with me. the arch looks cold, and the benches sting even through a layer of pants. so I don't sit, just pace, and think of warmer times.