Last night a hard wind drove
what leaves are left from
branches to the street below.
This morning junco, wren and
house finch crowd the feeder
in the kind of unforgiving light
reserved for late fall.
Last weekend, or maybe
the week before, would have
been perfect for driving
the twisting roads east of town
to measure the changing
shades of oak and maple
against the shifting landscape.
Where was I? Where were you?
Sleeping off too much drink,
dreaming of the bluff and double
cross, the ugly sell out we live
with day and night. I know
you well enough to see your
anger coiled behind the
smallest gestures, the way
you brush your hair
or remove an earring when
you answer the phone.
All we can do now is sit
tight in a low lit room
and wait for the hard frost.

Peter Klein
PETER KLEIN has most recently published poems in The Cortland Review, The Lightning Bell Poetry Journal, and The Paumanok Review.  He lives with his wife in Nashville, Tennessee where he works for a market research company.