Cold Season

	Another wet winter, cold,
	and my ears have closed up.
	Sinuses again, I think.
	I can hear water falling 
	in the Plaza fountain, 
	the tinkle of keys against
	the steering wheel.
	All these small sounds,
	but your mouth opens and closes,
	a muffled cave.
	I stare baffled while you repeat.
	A left-over bird twitters
	somewhere in the distance
	and highway cars swish
	softly into the night.

	There is a dead spot
	in this room,
	the space between us,
	and no words make it across.

		- Kim Hodges  (1/99)