Snow-caked shoes;
A gust of cold wind,
Against the warm flame.
A tightening in my gut.
I cough.
The paper burns in unison
With the back of my throat.
I inhale deeply but find no air.
Music fills my ears as snow falls
Gently onto the olive drab shoulders
Of my coat.
My numb fingers rise again to my lips
Bringing another breath of relief.
I flick the filter into my neighbor’s yard
And finish writing on my wrist.
I cap my pen.
A poem, finished.
