WINTER EVENING

  by Cappy Love Hanson

I’m not saying it has to be this way, only 
that the supple light hardening to stone gray 
may pepper the clouds with dull thuds 
like a hail of lead slugs, so you tug your bathrobe 
close and scuff around the living room in slippers, 
head ducked.  The fire’s burned your hours 
down to hooded eyes, savage and sultry.  
Despite the overheated air, a shapeless ache 
may creep along your long bones, and the you 
that used to suit up may no longer leap to its feet, 
shouting, “Me, Coach!  Put me in!”

But sometimes there’s redemption, too, as when 
the memories of old loves whine and scratch 
at the kitchen door like white-muzzled dogs.  
They shake off dry leaves, dead grass, the soil 
of graves; turn three times and lie down 
across your chest, the fever in their bellies 
radiating dream after cherished dream 
into your bare and shivering heart.