The Sticky “L”
He’s wearing fingerless gloves
while he types, the sort beloved
of market traders. His tea cools
before he can sip it, so he gulps
in fast glugs to warm his sluggish
blood. A striped beanie, left, lost,
by some long-forgotten someone,
snugs pink-tipped ears. Nothing
bad can sly beneath its woollen
fortress. Blue-tinged fingers jitter,
still chilled, stuttering out spatters
of frost-hope words, his keyboard
with the sticky “L”. “I ove you, I do
and I ust for you, that too” doesn’t
quite sound right. No icicle melt.
But his “ove” pelts his chest like
snide white snowballs midddled
with rocks. Like the bigger kids
would hurl at him. Just a skinny
boy, whose snot-nose ran faster
than he ever could. But he “oves”.
It’s undeniable, blackest ice biding
time ‘til a spring that doesn’t come.
But it might. It should. Snowdrops,
this frost-hope tingle in his hands.
Cold tea slopped in the pot plant.
He clicks send to digitally declare
his “ove”, then puts the kettle on.