by Tim Hawkins 

Scurrying together, uniting at the flagpole, chapped hands of greeting concealed like their expressions lost inside cavernous hoods, some hail me with a terse nod.

But, I do not join their prayer for unborn souls. Instead, I watch the wind scatter each breath rising toward heaven. And they do not attack me with hands grown numb, as if their fingers had never plucked a fragile, night-blooming flower.

They add me, instead, to their list of unborn souls, clasp their raw and bleeding hands together, and maintain a stolid circle against the cold.

 
Tim Hawkins spent two decades living and traveling around the world. His short fiction and poetry can be found in numerous print and online magazines and anthologies He has published a poetry collection, Wanderings at Deadline (Aldrich Press, 2012) and a poetry chapbook, Jeremiad Johnson (In Case of Emergency Press, 2019). A story and poetry chapbook, Synchronized Swimmers, is available in early October 2019 from KYSO Flash Press. Find out more at his website: www.timhawkinspoetry.com