I found your mitten, and I remembered you didn’t want
to trudge with me to that festival, frozen in a snowstorm.
I found it staticked to a blanket that smelled like bonfire
smoke and felt like huddling under brown skies feasting
on whiskey. If I rub this mitten, will I separate positives
from negatives? Maybe I’ll sit on a bus in seven weeks
and realize this was the last time I cried. Maybe on a
Sunday, with nowhere to be, I’ll climb up the canyon /
Na na na na na na yeah / I’ll feel the need to build
a monument, but instead I plan dinner and walk home.