There's a rumor someone slashed
the super's fat throat & tonight we're stranded
by unexpected wind gusts.

Black night breathes & low, heavy, bomb-
dropping December rings in its own chills.

My sloe-eyed, small-boned,
whiskey voiced neighbor (aptly named
Jackie-O) nails a red holiday wreath onto her
front door, forbidding anyone but herself to enter
her passage in the season of light.