November hits like wooden heels on plastic corners
(There was a major “reinvention of infrastructure” effort a few years back; construction workers were summoned to West Philly corners to install inclined sidewalk corners that were meant to help the disabled. The corners are made of red plastic now, and on those Friday mornings when the sun is rising and I am running, I think about how many layers of pavement there are below my wooden heels.)
November feels like holding hands
(Fog rolls in and feels like film grain on your skin and wrinkles in your hand molding to those in his.)
November stings like lemon on dry salmon on cracking countertops over peeling linoleum floors in north Jersey.
(I pretended to hate the records my parents used to play, but I find myself alone on Saturday nights listening to ELO and realizing we are not that different—that their steps on the wooden stairs in our circa 1905 house are heavy because they were 15 and 16 and 17 and they felt the sting of November.)
November pounds like live drums in a church basement and curls like yellow pleather on varsity jackets
And November and fades just as easily as it hits, like falling asleep on the subway.