Snow On Street

The strong wind hits your face
Like shards of glass
Blowing your hair everywhere.
Luckily you don’t wear a wig.

It’s another four blocks
To your place of work.
You turn a corner
And the wind is still hitting you head on.

Arriving at work you sit at your desk.
Your shaking fingers hit the keyboard
Like a junkie
In need of a hit.

A few hours later you want a cigarette.
You have to go outside.
Shaking your way through the cigarette
You curse yourself afterwards.

“Stupid habit.”
As your hands have to warm up again.
It’s time to go home
And you’re dreading the walk.

You walk as quickly as possible
But it’s never quick enough.
You are momentarily cheered up
As you see a wig blowing across the street.