It was a strange place,
the Cul-de-sac.

I could hear the
echo of my scraping
steps on the
flash-froze
Ice,
a crisp wrinkle in the
sonic architecture of
the small valleyed place.

100 steps I counted
not including the
careful, measured
paces up the last of the
concrete stairs.

Wind picked up
and suddenly,
the car would be gone
if I looked for it.

Wind fell down
and suddenly,
the car was still gone,
because I didn’t quite care
enough to make sure
that I had a way
Out.