I find my finger tracing silhouettes of strangers

As I tap my foot and stare outside the glass pane in front of me

Onto the street where passersby greet the crisp morning air

With knit scarves and hats and boisterous jackets and saddlebags at the hip,

Ready to ride into town and run out the sheriffs in charge of the show

On West End and Broadway.
|
|
Flurries of snow greet the ground with thunderous applause

As I sip my brew, intertwining fingers with my mug like lovers

And tracing silhouettes of strangers standing at the corner

With my free hand.
|
|
The silent footsteps remind me of the cars at Piccadilly Circus on the first snow of the season,

And how all rhyme and reason belong to silhouettes of strangers that walk past the storefronts and stoplights and billboards and Barclay's

Instead of the steady sound of tires screeching and stopping traffic

In this picturesque place.
|
|
A winter's day in New York is a lot like a winter's day in London;

Silhouettes of strangers are outlined by the fingers of fresh-faced people sipping coffee in a corner café.

They tap their feet and wait for a silhouette to escape the bellowing silence of the snow and the roar of the barren roads.

All they want is to intertwine their fingers with another,

Instead of a lukewarm mug.