You leave,

toting, above your head,
a halo

on your way to some place
that may not even exist 

and you’re no angel
but you always thought
a glowing circle 
where your wavy hair ends
and sky begins
suits you –

that’s why you walk
slowly, warily
so you don’t drop it,

pray under your breath,
not to God,
but to the best you in a mirror,

because should your halo
fall and shatter,
there’d be no piecing it back together,

so you take one careful step at a time,
hold your head erect,
as the wind picks up,
and passing traffic tries 
to grab your attention,

and even birds 
and kids playing in their yards,
have it in for you
and that preposterous floating tiara,

and a guy polishing his car whistles,
and an old woman leans out her second floor window,
says, “Just look at that”
and not in a kind way,

as you don’t risk turning,
nor opening your mouth,
to acknowledge or disprove 
the world,

for you’re stuck with this moving pose,
and can only go forward

and now the falling leaves 
come after you
and fumes from an auto graveyard
and conversations between perfect strangers

and even the spinning of the earth
that spins shadows like a web 
and a downtick 
in the weather
that makes cold and rainy
the new norm –

yet still the halo holds –

by now,
it’s as dark,
as chilly,
as dank,
as its surroundings
but it holds.