Stranger on Ice

I slipped on frozen sidewalk
en route
to crispy cider celebration.
Cement met me quick,
embraced my hip.
I wore a helpless, gripping boot—
hers iron.
She pulled me quick.

The first to hurt—
no, not my body,
not my bones,
but my blood, hot in my face.
Stars hiding theirs.
Parked headlights peeping,
their laughter rolling
from the muffler—
hot breath in icy air.

What to do but lie there,
wait for a helping hand
or a concerned question?
I did not bounce.
I lay with a patient smile.
I fell a mile,
and no one came—
all the same, all the same,
a stranger on ice.

Careful now, to both boots.
Slower now.
I know her tricks—
slippery when wet,
deadly frozen.

I check for damages:
her surface immaculate.
My body aches—
hot blood on cold nights.
Phone. Wallet. Spirit.
I look for smirking faces,
shuttering shadows in glass.
Only headlights and mufflers,
and no one about.
The shopkeep in warm light
pretends ignorance.
Two out of three ain’t bad.

Gingerly, to the other door,
looking back—
were those cones there
before, and yellow tape?
God, my bones ache.
Am I bleeding?
Did I break on that eager ice?

I pull out my phone to tell—
who to tell?
A friend, a lover?
Who to tell, to comfort in,
to ease the pain
in my swelling side?
But who to tell?

This store
sells no cider.
But down the road—
down the road.

February 2, 2026