Virus V

Dawn's sharp edge. The next night seems far away. 

Early rain falls into a cold November drizzle. 

 

Snow had fallen freely in the park. A man in a rust coloured cap had slept. 

 

A homeless virus took away his soul. He waits with other soulless men, who remember only half of what they lived. 

The line moves slowly. A morning angel serves them coffee and bread.

The windows look like they are crying. The bricks sound as if they are breathing sick air. Heavy and labouring in sorrow. The nothing man feels warm. A fever set up in his skin days ago. His lungs cough like the bricks' sick air. The memory is nearly gone. 

 

The delirium before the dying? 

........The cold before the cure?

The line of nothing men move slowly. The angel in the distance pours coffee and hands out warm bread. The man can't recall her distant face. Just as he can't remember his fiancee's name.

But the sensation comes, with each slow step. Like a saxophone solo playing by Coltrane. Like an Alabama dirge. The crescent moon in the sky. 

 

He sees her long flowing hair tied by a white mask. 

 

A memory comes back. 

She wanted to be a nurse, help the homeless. Forgotten men who barely knew their name. Before the disease came. It was Coltrane. 

 

He can hear the music along the crying windows. Hear it past the breathing  bricks.

In the late fall when snow turns to rain. Is it her? He waits in line. Is the fever breaking? Is he starting to feel alright? Soon he will sip coffee, feel warm bread. Maybe he'll know her name.