how cold was it?

A bundled man walked briskly by
his breath puffing white
like muttered cartoon balloons;
his footsteps quacked
on the snow like a duck
hoarse in the dry air.

A shopper boasted
he was going to the beach:
what’s the use of all the
hardening our cold summer
gave us if we had a wimp
of a mild winter?

The theatre parking lot was
a giant traffic snarl: wind hurled
blades of snow horizontal;
minivans blindly hugged the curb
in front of the entry, plan B if
the kids’ show was sold out.

Under the clear obsidian sky
and the achingly beautiful aurora
cars patrolled the crowded lot
tires groaning on the packed snow;
would-be patrons clustered around
the theatre entry, boots quacking
as they stomped to stay warm.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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