two feet shuffle
onto the matted down, stained-brown, maroon-ish
welcome mat while

a head shakes off the dusting of snow
its shaggy hair has collected.

breath billows out of a mouth
like smoke from a burning cigar as

a body, with glasses fogged, fingers frosted,
bundled up in scarfs, and mittens, and layers galore
inches into the grocery store

where a bagboy slouches in a
half-dazed stupor, eyes glued to the clock,

a self-righteous old lady with her
back bent, voice shrill,
haggles the price of soup

and a baggy-eyed mom snaps hushed
chastisements to a *****-faced boy,
with ratty hair falling onto his blushed face.

in this store, customers move slow,
with nowhere to be and nowhere to go

and the holiday jingle heard playing
above them, betrays their heavy hearts
and sunken spirits.

outside, it is cold,
but inside this store,
it is no different.