a crust of grey snow,
ankle deep,
the froth
of slush
and ice, salt,
the debris of air
and road.
it takes the smile
out of winter,
balancing
one arm
against
a lamp post,
flagging down
the future that awaits
in a yellow cab.
maybe she'll
forgive you for being,
once again,
so late, so wintry
in your dour
demeanor, your
black hat.
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