A bitter broken toe
only adds to the feeling.

The feeling of satisfaction.
Top down,
flying,
on Friday night roads.

I'm not one to let a limp
hobble my grave enjoyment
of a summer accomplishment.

I'm not one to let a tiny bone
stop me
from a hard day's work.

I think I'm ready for winter.
The sprawling white blankets
that always blind my eyes.
The gossamer sheen of
a fresh morning frost, and
watching the rising sun
eat it from the windshield.
My breath unfurling about my head,
like I'm exhaling visible wisps of life.
Tough days. Restful nights.
Brandy and nicotine.
I think I'm ready for winter.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.
It's hidden sometimes behind a veil of
gratuitous and strenuous labor.
It's hidden behind making ends meet.
It's hidden behind a broken toe,
behind painful work that needs to be done.
It's hidden under a day spent
trudging through a foot of snow.

There's pleasure in choosing the hard road.

It's hidden,
but I promise you it's there.