Thick foggy mornings
headlights feint
streetlights blur
cars grunt
wiper blades cut through thin panes of ice
but—
I’d rather be in bed
wrapped in flannels
thick and warm
open fire
warms me from the inside out
toes wriggling
fingers tingling
fat splats of rain on my windows
I trace them
drawing patterns that make no sense
waiting for the sun—
waiting
I don’t think it’s coming out today
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