I remember those teas we drank in Lake Placid

and the warmth of the sun on my face.

I remember the days I wore short-sleeved shirts

and sandals with my hair waving loose.

And my irritated throat protests

from my change in habitat

as my head sinks into my scarf.

The Prosecutor

297 Days Left

The coat zipper got caught as I

rushed out the door, my ankles

swishing in my heels to get into the car.

It reminded me of that day, three years ago,

while I was on duty.

The sticky floor was not the only evidence

for what had occurred that night.

The smell of people remained,

of their sweat and drinks,

but the place was vacated-

or almost empty.

I paused outside the car, while the rain

drizzled around me, to concentrate on the task

at hand. The zipper resented my force.

Nobody had noticed her body under their feet,

no one except me,

and, by the time I found her,

she was purple with black splotches

and laying, for the last time,

in her black plastic bag.

The zipper relented,

my coat closed around my body

-shielding me-

although I was and probably would

remain cold forever.