Winter has come,
nothing left,
over two frail hours
in the waiting room,
dried plants bend
in a Dali green vase,
daylight rests
on an empty armchair,
a strange absence alone
by a frozen mirror,
my faceless shadow follows
unfamiliar faces
down endless corridors
doctored with whiteness
covering staircase walls,
a cat on the windowpane
drinks in the snow,
sweeps along corners,
now lost and motionless
with coppery exhaustion,
wishing to escape
on any trolley,
with an apple croissant
when my initials are called.

B.Z. Niditch's poetry appears in
Prairie Schooner, Denver Quarterly,
Skidrow-Penthouse, Antioch Review,
Columbia, and many other journals.
by B.Z. Niditch