Illuminating red beckons those who seek to
invest in hats, scarves, and gloves for the bitter bitch
that winter is.
A concrete monster separates you from salvation,
painted yellow, assigning your personal space,
and limiting your dance.
But a step and a stumble over pot-holes
that wish to swallow you whole,
a glass automatic door awaits.
You prance, clutching the insides of your pockets,
yearning for that first breath of warmth,
itching for a smile and a, "May I help you?"
And though your second wish never comes,
it is enough to be able to spread your lips
in a smile that can only spring from thawing limbs.