It is 5 degrees.
I am biking home from a bar shift at 2 AM.
The gears of my bike
chatter their rusty teeth.
The wind in a green doctor’s mask
slaps my newborn cheeks with a rubber gloved hand.
Breathe.
Open your eyes.
I am biking home from a bar shift at 2 AM.
The gears of my bike
chatter their rusty teeth.
The wind in a green doctor’s mask
slaps my newborn cheeks with a rubber gloved hand.
Breathe.
Open your eyes.
Coming from a climate-controlled womb,
every season is winter.
Landscapes of goose bumps construct themselves
under my puffy coat.
A new world crystallizes in the frost
porch swinging from my snot nose.
My gloved hunchback fingergrip around handlebar icicles
are ten old men crossing the street:
the rigid incline of their timeworn frame
bows to the frosty now,
oblivious to the time of day
or mortality rate of other extremities.
every season is winter.
Landscapes of goose bumps construct themselves
under my puffy coat.
A new world crystallizes in the frost
porch swinging from my snot nose.
My gloved hunchback fingergrip around handlebar icicles
are ten old men crossing the street:
the rigid incline of their timeworn frame
bows to the frosty now,
oblivious to the time of day
or mortality rate of other extremities.
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