Virginia’s cold in December.
We whisk the air through our mouths, our noses icy and wet, buzzing under the collar of a shirt if you don’t have a scarf.  
I don’t have a scarf.
It’s something I think I'll be fine with, but two weeks into our polar vortexes and I’m regretting not dredging up some forgotten pair from a year prior.
Even with gloves, our fingers lock into an animal’s claw, only to unfurl again in late April when the wind dies down.
I don’t have any gloves.
My last pair ripped on a jagged, steel countertop of some Shafer street buffet. The meal cost me $12.50, a dollar more than last month.

Virginia’s hot in June.
We walk slow in the shade, even slower in the sun. The river gulps more of it down than we ever could, belching out a horrible sulfur smell that tangs the air.
I don’t mind it.
The city bleeds rust after the first heavy rain, the cracked concrete wearing away, each year offering a better foothold for the creeping jenny and the kuzdu's green.  
The thump of a loudspeaker pounds the southside, a heartbeat always present, popping up in this park on Thursday, this porch on Saturday, this festival Friday night.

I don’t mind it at all.

Maroon, dust, old vinyl floors
Creepy dolls on the banister, teacups decorating the mantel
A small and skinny chandelier without candles.

Cold and wet, smooth cement
never AC blowing. Dusty, not *****
Tired and unused. Broken bulbs, 1950s *******, political propaganda from the Vietnam War.

That house, a groaning body with liver failure, the rain through those summer nights, the thick breath of humidity the day after.

Those ***** men
Love you grandpa.

The rattling music, the pins and the stops,
all cycling quickly, some symphony pop
Eyes wish to move freely yet glued to the sight,
of movement that’s aimless, so random and bright
The ball dances slowly, a final refrain
behind, leaving silence, allaying the brain
The cowboy’s hand waving, the flashy machine,
him smiling, lights blinking, the ending of things

Reconciling with silence, the game’s finished now,
the scoring’s not high but the colors won’t tell
You check your back pockets, eyes sweeping the floor,
for someone’s lost quarter to play with once more
But the lights simmer off and the timer rewinds,
the retina’s memory scorched deep in the mind
Him smiling, lights blinking, the ending of things,
reconciling with silence, that pinball machine

The cold-showered mornings of quiet farewells,
the silent rebuttal, where sanity dwells
The sundering dawned with the shaking of hands,
and now, thanks to God, we’re not speaking again.
We’re leaving that cowboy, his girl’s cheeky smile,
his child’s old dolls, oh so precious, how vile
Reconciling with silence, that pinball machine
a man’s trite performance, a stupid routine

A play so bizarre and the characters, too,
this desperate balance, the acting like fools
Protection’s no merit when playing with knives
made of pure southern charm from the furnace of pride
The rattling music, her fool’s happy charm,
their tactical front on this small cattle farm
Your dad’s trite performance, a stupid routine,
to think of the life that you had at fifteen

No powers at mind can conceive of the sight,
him broken, still fighting, those stained teeth, off-white
Trapped behind glass of the game that he plays,
but we “can’t blame him or the choices he made.”
Him smiling, lights blinking, the ending of things,
reconciling with silence - that pinball machine.
A man’s trite performance - a stupid routine,
to think of the lives we both lived at fifteen.