the scene, in shades of grey.

it's been cold in the city. for a good while.
whipping winds and blackened slush.
black ice. glad its my feet and not my tires on it.
i don't have tires these days.
getting better at hiding. and cooking.
still need a good sweat. get the heart pumping.
me and her, we've been hard at work trading runny noses, scratchy throats, and coughing fits back and forth. like ping pong. the sun can't reach through these tall buildings much right now.

the scene is presented in shades of grey mostly.

Park Avenue is a wind tunnel.

and the snow . . .

the East Coast was pummelled; New York City was teased.

Staunton was buried; Bushwick was dusted.

we still got the cold though. water tower froze on the roof of our building.

i'm real glad i found the old military surplus coat to keep me warm. she's a welcome friend. why don't they seem to make anything as good these days?

apples still flood the markets. they were stored for the winter.
no new growths yet. no new colors.
still like them apples though.
it's a sleepy daze. wintery lethargy. a hibernation.
slow blood. a full belly. cracked skin. sugary alcohol residue on the tongue.
the aftermath of The Jolly Season. The Februaries.
slippin' in the streets.
these boots make me sound like i mean business when i walk.
but there's a light crackling down the road.
something reaching through the buildings.
some lighter shoes to walk with.
a little bit of that sunshine.
some new colors.