We called
him Mr. Chillblain,
if you
passed by him on
the street
corner even in August
with the
mad cicadas screeching
up above,
you could still feel the
well of
cold in his belly
stripping
away the chemical energy
from you
fat cells
as if he’d
shoved an icy straw
deep into
your tissues.
He would
always smile, bob
his round
head, make
banal
little comments like
“Hot enough
for you?”
wiping
imaginary sweat from his
brow. And
you’d nod and hurry
up the
steps and through the door
and into
the bathroom
where you
would smooth soothing
unguents
onto your suddenly
chapped and
puffy lips.
