Whipping crappy little poems out because I’m bored at work.
Try and enjoy:
I can’t recall perfectly but the winter last year
while just as cold, (colder maybe),
was not quite as sunny.
I can picture a massive grey mess of a city,
a quick blizzard or two,
here, or there:
and there was a broken heart and a mass
of maudlin poetry.
Things differ this year.
The chill in the air is
odd mixed with the light. Plastic white clouds
and highlighter-blue sky are out of place with
this wicked, turning wind;
I can almost see it whip around the corners,
across the streets, through the alleys.
Good call with the thick scarf, girl.