pastels have taken refuge
in afternoons just out of reach
& the early evening commute
is bound by the small arc of a bike light
having spent his daylight
rather too much alone
the route now seems ominous,
full of missteps & misgivings --
scraped clear of mystery
on the LED-lit path
almost see ice & mud
of a frozen brew spilled
& sealed by unshakeable January
yet comes fresh cantaloupe recalled
asleep in a darkened fridge at home
& the prospect of a slight poem's
cadence to clear the path --
which may as well be swallowed
in tiny cubes, & later, sated,
pour cinnamon tea through whose steam
read of the day's scandal & brutality