The Star of the North

Sitting on the hood of my 95 VW Jetta
between tendrils of smoke and exhalation
the lights of Montreal blur the horizon
above the star of the North

funny I find
that I've come to define myself
on Webster St.
My chilled chucked feet banging
on the headlight
the beat pounding into the night
between falling white flakes

four hours have passed
since you brought me home
having sat beside me for hours
listening to Mother and Father
verbally spar over fiscal affairs
while we drank cold coffee from Styrofoam cups
that cracked between our teeth and watched the clock

each tock bringing us closer to forced
betrayal of one who made us
and deconstructs

Even now, sitting alone on a deserted
country road, ice in the corners of my eyes
frost on my shoes

I'm fucked

the snow has stolen the stars

So I wheeze another drag out of my stick
and pick out what may be a skyscraper
then attach a wish to its distant
electric glow
saying the words slow ever so slowly:

somebody, rescue me. please.