Year Of The Other

Michael Igoe

There’ll be a final snow,
silence will seem easier.
You will gather four limbs
relieved of the blank skies.
Not a chance is missed,
by a blinking marquee,
reflecting you and me,
as recent matinee idols
with a forlorn assurance.
But it's a pleasing sight,
junked autos in a series
serving as the witnesses
all caught up in yielding.
Another conversation turns to reach outside.
Convincing those there
the cars were once full
with spies of the Czars and the noble assassins