Fingers numb, neck stiff, nose red.
Ah, how I dream of a warmer time.
Will it ever come? Will I make it to then?
Months pass. I am expiring at the bus stop.
Fruitlessly fanning my face with a newspaper,
about to dissolve into the concrete.
Why, why did I ever long for a midsummer’s day?
Wouldn’t I be happier if I learned to accept what is
and just live with it?