DECEMBER 17

Bridges' legs tattooed and painted
up for a hand-reddening cold day,
counting minutes precisely, smothering
signals of well-wishes and feebled sighs
concerning arrivals planned poorly,
in tandem with beloveds lacking
agency,

standing amid dear frosted drift-
wood, denied title of relics holy
by their abundance and anonymity,
conversing one-sidedly in tepid prayer-
sounds

lost amid superfluous clanging
for those newly boarded, not
slowing the trip but in thought
anxious for ever-quickening
departures
to pry open a timèd trip by
pantomimed rapidity for your sake;
thoughty tics and movements done seated
pale passenger for ticket not journey.