The winter wind snakes in through gaps
imperfectly sealed with what materials we
can scrounge. Wood from other falling-down houses
feeds our fire now that the trees are gone.
Nate clubbed a skinny dog on the dangerous
street where the rest of us fear to go.
Some old tough meat on ribs and haunches.
We crowd around the flames, the walls almost
as blackened as the pit for our cooking.
Feel the snow sift down on the unlit night.
Julia’s nostalgic again. “Remember apples?
Sometimes the sun printed leaves on the skin.”
She makes a cup of her dirty palms. “I held
them like this. I thought we’d always have apples.”
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Thomas R. Smith
Picture Rupert Loydell
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