he brushes his long hair from his eyes
as he turns to push away the approaching sun.
the snow, not yet melted, crunches 'neath his feet.
tehe taste of a burnt out cigarette remains;
it is asleep on his lips.
in the wind, the skeleton of a tree sways gently.
nothing save the sound of his feet can be heard.
there are no leaves to rustle.
once again, he is tired from the walk to nowhere.
he returns home and drifts to sleep,
the hard and wooden parkbench pressed against his back.
it chills him to the spine.
he is home. home.