Parking Lot, Pre-Dawn
       

The only light this hour
a sheen of crisp ice refracting
from last week's snow piles; a woman

steps onto crushed gravel, her hips
barely brushing the grills of cars
as she drifts with a wobble

from one to the next, her gloved hand
leaving a three-pronged trail
along the icy metal.

Watching from a window above, I imagine
the scuff of fabric on frost,

the almost palpable almost-sound,
a vibration making its way to me
until the thread is broken

by the helix of an alarm.
She stops. Then
as all of the proximal dogs weigh in

and the weak winter sun begins its ascent
she sheds a pale scarf like a loose feather
before stepping toward the door

and, trailing the wings of her red coat,
plunges into the briefbrightening there.

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Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Aronson All rights reserved
from Ghost Child of the Atalanta Bloom
Orison Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission