When the cold clutters my bones with slow-motion,
filling them like paragraphs of pain-staking cursive,
I will speak, mumbling sonnets
about love, warmth, beaches,
or abandonment issues that plague countries.
I will soak in the morning as it
closes my eyes with glassy ice balm,
but coat my chapped mind
in a revitalizing act!
I will feel temperatures so low
that my teeth feel like popcorn kernels
ready to POP. I will try to speak
articulately to passing bums,
who, ironically, have no teeth at all.
I will hover over the roads
like I am navigating
in machines futuristic
and terrain foreign,
while constantly tuned to talk radio.
When the world goes numb,
at least my words will