Drop
The Drop
I am on the white bright bed’s edge
hanging on for dear life, in a dream
just before sunrise, where it is a ledge
above 5th Avenue. Fingers gripping the seam
of the sheet, while raindrops weaken my hold
drops so very cold, my fingers freeze, turn blue
growing numb, letting go. It is so cold
Pray there is snow below us to break, or a crew
to catch us before we break on the concrete
below. Cold fingers lose their grip
and I plummet quick to the street
face down, cheeks rippling - just a drip
of rain slides down my collar, it makes my
edges all cold, I pull the blankets tight and sigh.
T. A. Cullen
Copyright © Thomas Cullen | Year Posted 2020
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