Walking in Winter

Cold cuts

Through your coat

Like a blunt machete

Pulling, stripping away

The cloying warmth

Of fashion and function.

 

Step outside,

Onto the grey concrete

And hard-packed wet cigarettes.

Listen to the wind:

“Prepare to meet your God!

He’s sitting on the corner

Wrapped in a blanket.”

 

Walk around the corner.

Feel the music of eight,

Nine, ten different bars

Fight for possession of your ears,

Life and love and sex and death and sex,

Fight for possession of your ears.

Listen, instead, to the wind:

“Prepare to meet your God!

She’s hunched over a fading phone,

Waiting for the bus.”

 

Walk past the bus stop.

Nearly home.

Everything hurts more when it’s cold

And sore feet turn blue.

Nearly home.

It’s raining now,

Beads of firmament

Clatter to the ground.

Nearly home.

Listen to the wind.

Its final howl:

“Prepare to meet your God!

Flickering on each screen,

Every screen.

Flickering,

Flickering,

Flick-er-ing.”

Home.

It’s a bit cold.

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