Snow speckled skyline, weather for sleep.
With hand on window, the window weeps.
New York resolution, longing to yield.
Train tracks are shut, but time still shunts on.
A once vibrant city, now visibly silent.
Ready and writhing, wrapped in layers,
worn winter workers, warmed from walking,
cling to hot coffee quickly gone cold.
Hands feel frozen and fail to hold.
A coffee catastrophe taints the ground,
white snow ruined by stain and hound.
This winter weather, no warmth in feather,
together they gabble, grounded by sleet.
Leaves unreliable, limp umbrellas,
precarious parcels of snow pile up.
With one swoop wishful thoughts wane.
Shoveling shopkeeper shoos birds away!
Wet people wander, seeking the warmth,
tracing new tracks, to torment his toils.
Inside he waits, watches, and wipes.
Customers leave, clutching umbrellas,
joints freezing fast, eyes fighting fog.
This crappy chasm becomes their life.
The feeling soon thaws when home with family.
Moist wool socks now flags on mantle.
At home is humid, jackets are hung,
look out the window, and long for the sun.