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lips chapped, throat raw & burning —

ungloved hands, exposed to the biting wind,

rummage every pocket, every fabric crevice

seeking balm to either malady, preferably both

but chilled fingers find nothing

other than a vague promise of warmth

& a few stray nubs of lint

trudging forward, I tuck in my chin,

leaning hard into winter’s bitter onslaught

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mortality becomes a thing —

one imagines how the ravages of aging

will undo a person’s body, a person’s mind

but, a violent death in the winter of life!

I cannot conjure the pain, the fear, the horror