from the barbershop, carmello sees winter boots squeaking south on passyunk near broad sun-low, gold and cold. from the second chair, carmello hears a ring, a barber’s ‘howaya’ and something about shoveling the goddamn cold off the car’s bald spot from twenty-two years ago, carmello hears a crank and clank of metal slides sees the well-reflected light that never dims or moves across a gray and grainy sky from his belly, carmello feels the itch where scar knuckles skin he stands then sits then stands again because today, he can from his breath, carmello invents a prayer. to the daily news he says st. quotidiano, pray for me so little here, so much to lose.