A pencil breaks in cold weather
My back is sore again
Unkind cold, unkindled pile,
Snow on the scrap wood
So inside is where this is
With socks under my legs and radio
Sunken like a wet log but dry
Into the cushions where soon
My legs will itch to walk outside...
Damn the wind chill
I brace into the crunching tracks
The wrinkling face of winter
JM
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