Hugh Findlay

The Must

Monday morning, 5 a.m.

quiet pre-workday winter

and breath freezing cold

as my kitchen floor.

In rooms asleep

a child dependent

kidnapping my time,

a pregnant wife and

her vomit of tears.

The day ahead, a

labor of machines,

the steely breakdown of

mind and body,

oiled by paychecks.

Out the window,

the dark street, the

black still shell of

sleep on the snow.

I wonder

if I could melt the

light fall of snowflake

with just my breath while

lying back-down naked

on the front lawn?

How long would it take

to completely cover me,

just the occasional puff

of steam where my mouth

makes a hole?

And what if they

didn't find me

until Spring?

I wonder

if the snow would mind,

if the lawn would care,

if the ground beneath

would hold me

responsible?


Hugh Findlay’s writing and photography have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, in print and online. He is in the third trimester of life. Instagram & Twitter: @hughmanfindlay