Trudging in knee high mid-winter wet,
silent sidewalks.
Sun glows high
reflecting off the white making it hard to see.
Cars are buried,
slush is starting to form, as morning moves.

What a harsh day to choose celebration.
Wedding party huddled on steps,
dark cherry wood looks rusted.
Brass bells on the side of the steeple
are cracked and corroded.
One cross looms above the building.
Stained glass whispers.

Bellowing voices of broken down men,
every bar stool is taken.
A different kind of worship.
Spiked hot chocolate and then a nap.

Newspapers in the side stand are ruined,
green awnings are still pulled in,
the produce isn’t out today.
The world has forgotten itself.