(on meeting Anna for a second time, 14 Jan. 2006)

Cradled a black sign

In the crevice of my chin,

Stenciled in stark white letters,

The words:

“No Blood for Oil”

The snow piled into the folds

Of my trousers, accumulated

On the back of my neck

& melted on my bare, brittle fingers.

I breathed in the stillness,

Observed cars passing

On Elmwood Ave., accumulating

Like snow at the stoplight.

Where Bidwell Parkway crosses,

I stared into faces of passengers

& drivers as they passed—

Some too steel-eyed to look,

Some grinning approval,

Offering the thumbs-up,

& others intent on burgers

From the fast-food drive-thru

Halfway down the block.

A few honked, showing their support.

One extended his middle finger

To display his disgust

& spun away the instant

The light turned green.

I stood in my stillness,

Listened to the tires of his SUV

Cutting trails

Through the slush on the street.

When the protest signs were retired

& the line of vigil retreated

To Café Aroma on the corner,

I followed silent,

Then lingered at the window,

Watched them enter, take a table,

Order coffee & shrug off

Their coats, mittens & mufflers.

I watched Anna, beautiful

As porcelain wisdom among them,

Who gave kind words to me

When I read my poetry at Rust Belt Books.

Folded in my pocket was a poem,

Composed just for her.

But I hesitated, uncertain in the eddies

Of wind & soft, swirling snow.

Inside, Anna was folded in laughter,

Familiar warmth of her Women In Black.

So I stayed outside,

Rubbed clean the cloud

My breath made on the cold windowpane,

Turned away to walk through the white,

& took my stillness with me.