Gateway

Charles moved out of his apartment in late February—

Mounds of dirty snow, dreary heaps 

on the cracked sidewalk, 

frozen air clinging to graffait-covered street 

signs and covering the gutter grains with an 

ephemeral, milky hue—

U-Haul parked outside, 

husky hum spilling from its insides that churn to 

fight the all-consuming cold of a New York winter—

Coughs of smoke, settling immediately on the wet concrete, 

morose croaks slicing through the biting air that stung his roommate's nostrils.

The world stood still as Charles climbed into the heat of his emptying apartment—

A table and lonesome lamp clutched under his arm—

His roommate in the doorframe, 

a statue etched out of the stone of morning silence, 

his eyes glazed over by weariness—

Charles’ activity was irritating to him,

consistently moving to mock his own stillness, 

and that of the world that enveloped them both, 

moving so fast until he was merely a pair of headlights, 

a license plate, 

and a puff of smoke 

racing along the road while everything else was too frozen to do anything but watch. 

Mid-March and the roommate visited Charles’ hunting cabin—

Intoxicated by the liquor of an indoor fireplace, 

smoke melting his head into a foggy hue like his body into the couch 

decorated with a newly caught bearskin—

Sitting and listening to Charles talk about his writing endeavors,

Boasting a life of hunting, writing, and drinking, 

a recluse to the world and even to himself, 

having become a buoy bouncing 

up and 

down in the waters of acquiescence, 

nature deciding how he should spend his days instead of himself—

A meal of roasted chicken and arugula salad, 

the roommate in his car driving away, a pair of headlights, 

a license plate, 

and a puff of smoke 

back to the superficiality of city life as the trees pointed back to Charles’ cabin, 

willing him to turn around.

Late April, the last time the roommate saw Charles—

Paying him a surprise visit,

Making the journey to the still vacancy of his cabin, 

the haunting silence of the world ringing in his ears louder than any urban noise—

On the floor, Charles, 

life spilling from his head and a hunting pistol lodged in his right hand, 

his vacant eyes once brimming with thrill like a pair of headlights, 

turned superficial license plate only identifying his wearing body, 

turned puff of smoke in the drive of despondency.