Scrambled Eggs and Sympathy Cards

by Anthony Van Hart

We spent that entire winter with shaky hands and shrunken egos.

Lived off of scrambled eggs and sympathy cards -

internally tattered-

externally shattered.


We'd show up on Vernon Street,

nearly every Tuesday at sundown.

Tired eyes.

And your face-  

worn and slightly imprinted from the palms that often harvested your tears,

and your wrists,

- pressure points -

they still registered last night's scent.


With eager eyes

and unsure footing,

we'd prowl the night

looking for the lost.