Cold Hands

A cold air chills my lungs.

The exhale manifest the ghost of my breath. 

I close my coat tighter.

Not to let my warmth escape into the night.

The wind has my ears running to hide.

Pull up my collar to give my ears a sanctuary.

Luckily my feet have extra layers.

My fingers, however, lay bare.

Open to punishment from the elements.

I tuck my nose under my scarf.

Knowing my glasses will fog. 

Sacrificing clear sight for a runny nose.

I make my way down the city streets.

Barren night on this an arctic night.

Scampering of heels, a lady who chose to wear a dress dashes past me. 

Poor soul, the price for her beauty that she must pay 

Steam rising from the subway

If not for the gut wrenching smell it would be a fine  place to stand and get warm. 

The wind bitting with every howl. 

A warm drink would help but I would need a hand to hold it.

With no gloves, not a sacrifice I’m willing to trade. 

Four blocks into it, I give in.

I hail a cab to take me home. 

Touch the freezing car door-handle, afraid my finger might stick.

I jump in as if I were a sprite 8 year old.

Close the door immediately behind me.

The cab feels as if I were sitting in front of a fire. 

A welcome reprieve from the harsh cold.

Give him my address and I sink into a warm backseat.

Next time I won’t forget my gloves. 

Day #41 SJD

Copyright © 2018 Segundo Juan Devora. All Rights Reserved

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