It's empty, the rink. The eighty-four foot spruce casts no shadow at this hour. Soon, the street will be filled with happy, laughing families, or at least the appearance of happy laughing families. Does anyone know the inside of another's heart? Can you? Can I?
For now, it's empty. I have it all to me, this grey-pink hour between night and dawn.
I've watched it, cars honking at 4 a.m., plaza crowded with partiers, too much to eat, too much alcohol, too many drugs, drowning sorrows they don't know they have, filling their insides, their physical insides while I watch and compose metaphors. Hug themselves against the cold, giggling, going up and down the stairs, round the tree, and then?
Everyone leaves.
No one will see the sunrise except me.
I have no where else to go, no one to miss me, to wonder where I am.
Maybe when the sun comes up, I won't be so cold.
Maybe.
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