cold

The boy sits on the wooden bench
Wind blows against his face
As the bicyclist swish passed him
Making little tire tracks along the snow
Dirt trails marking each indent of rubber
And it’s cool.
The boy looks down at his hands
Red, dry and swollen
Blows his warm breathe against
As if blowing into a broken balloon
Nothing to show for it.
It’s too cold.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s