The Potluck

It was mystical.
.
I navigated the cold
like a stalwart, holding
the cane and the
bag while fingers began
painful death along with
everybody else at the
bus stop in the crowd
as the early darkness
crept.
.
I ate too much at the potluck
had crumbs on my sweater, and
my nose was moist. I doddered.
I sat beside someone who doddered.
.
Eventually, memories become dreams.
and dreams are mistaken for memories.
.
I brought
macaroons that no one ate.
The years were
grabbed away. I thought,
if were to die tonight
it would be fine.