Late January On South Fairmount
this damned wind burrows into the marrow
and the streetlights give trashcans halos
salt crunches underfoot
the cold sidewalk pinches the feet
soot and cinder blacken the ice
my face is numb
frozen dogshit and piss sometimes
broken brown glass
sticks
a hard diaper
balled up under the stop sign
the night is for navigation
and maneuvering about the litter
and waste of the urban dweller
pretending I’m George Washington’s men
on last legs
without much hope
3 layers all over
grey rags
and black wool
bent at an angle into the wind
forward
with one nip of warmth at every block