In the city,
no one speaks of the nude gray boughs
of the street trees
or the frantic pre-snow scrambling
of the squirrels
or the rolling trips of the dead leaves
down the sidewalks
or the wind sticking its fingers
in our eyes

except as metaphor

for the lonely strands of our lives
not intersecting
except in random glances
or tossed off commentaries
on the threatening weather

we forget
we are animals
preparing to hunker down
in want and need
during the season

we do not want to consider
that urban
is another word for hive
or that urbane
is another way of saying
we lie when we are outdoors
and pretend we’re not
susceptible
to being
cold