Monday, January 10, 2011

...frozen puddles...

the cold starts thinking

about tin cans in the street

styrofoam islands in the frozen

puddles on Monmouth

the little girl shatters

with a pink skip fracture

(that sound always got me

like the sound of glass breaking)

her pink plastic boots kicking

into the groaning grey sky.

the cold starts thinking of sticking

to our necks, to our stiff

upper torsos, stale stale morning

breath and fractured

vapor foaming out of the exasperated

mouths of business men heading

to the business day, au pairs huddling

their wrapped white babies,

storefronts cracking the frozen lock

clicking and clanking

the sliding metal up

into its' housing

while the cold takes a crack

at each and every sense

of each and every waking body.

the cold starts thinking he has some

weight to throw around here.

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