slow leak

for weeks that winter i would drive each day
to the gas station at the foot of the mountain to
refill my front tires. kneeling in cold gravel
winter made my skin red & raw. how deeply i craved
to uncover myself. at home again, becoming a mirror ghost.
shower steam. dinner alone at the white dining room table.
more calls for snow. dim light of my television.
a companion. the pandemic had lost its legs. now crawled 
through my body with a kind of loneliness 
only queer people can know. i befriended windchimes
& fed the raccoons my scraps. just to find 
my tires wilted again in the morning.