gōrlitzer winter

mittens over gloves, tucked deep in pockets
an elderly man limping through the street feeding pigeons
while a woman mumbles to herself beneath her scarf

someone starts speaking to me in German
—"I'm sorry, I don't speak German."

silence, more staring out the window

	certain things in life
	are only romantic
	in movies
	and in the heads
	of my overly-idealistic friends

	who suffer and wish
	what I know won't be different

yet somehow this isolation in another language
isn't quite as harsh as that in my homeland

brittle and frozen
time zones and decades away
muted colors and shadows graze me

I'm not a tourist,
but I don't live here
I'm hardly anywhere

constantly but a visitor beneath this ever-shrinking atmosphere