Salt crystals, de-icing road spray, sand, that grit,
Crow minstrels, squirrels play, coyotes sprint
all
along
the
boulevard,
tear drops fall,
angry voices call,
a hand with rough knuckles and a L O V E tattoo
caresses a naked shoulder in tight jeans,
even though it is minus six
unless
the transport
trucks speed,
down the main
drag,
ups the wind chill,
the city of green spaces,
upturned faces shine with hope?
or looking for the the thirty plus
BMX rider with their dope,
'round here
a hit can be three things,
drug related,
gang related,
or another pedestrian
defenestrated
from a cross walk framed pane,
wrong place in time,
because the reaper
behind the wheel will
chill the reality of how
winter
kills