The end of February, 
a garbage truck 
is backing up outside my window. 

Four years ago 
my father died, 
that's more than a thousand days. 

Emily is across from me, 
her head cocked like a curious dog. 
She's muttering lines from an upcoming show, 
broken into jazz standards. 
Something about "Baby leaving" 
and "Never coming back."

Where are you 
in the winter 
when I need some camaraderie?

I'm disappointed 
about my job. 
It's definitely not what I envisioned. 

Emily is staring out the window, 
the three armed lamp is out one bulb. 
I hear you are travelling around towns I can't pronounce. 
You know, I used to live in them! 
Now I must get some rest.

All the good symptoms of art will always bring some restlessness. 
In the februaries of my late twenties and, I suppose, my thirties.