Near a folded newspaper.

somebody talks in the other room

about what, I cannot say

maybe some revolution

I am turning colder

my legs close to each other

my hands folded

I look up towards the source

of all this untimely chill

outside, a green river flows

washing off man’s dirty footprints

late noon, the chill fills my room

I cannot sit in comfort

for lack of choice, I have to.

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