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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