Outside, my boots stiffen like two

dead mice. Earlier at the Old Port cafe

I heard a ravishing barista fret

over milk: ce lait est gonflé, on jette?

Just wait til the end of the day, the other

stunning one said. Bad answer, the distance got

real wide. So much unblessed air.

I got out of there, slogged over icy

stone. Didn’t meet any metro eyes.

Eyes that meet cause war

and marriage: art says Helen

had arresting blues. On the train

I watch two men invent a handshake.

When they are done, they giggle.

Then they watch the ground.