Pause

The crisp January air seems to gently torment my work worn hands,
Seeping through the cracks in my skin as if to slowly turn me to ice.

My hair flops stubbornly over my face, blocking my lips
From taking a long drag from a cigarette, so I pause to breathe it all in.

Eighteen wheelers whir by in what seems like a blink of the eye,
Dodging the shit boxes and eye candy as they fly past in a race to the finish line.

I wonder if they even stop to marvel at the tall rye grass
As it blows in waves across the fields,
Or the way the pine trees bump and grind at their tallest branches.

The clear blue sky looks like a pool of dreams awaiting nightfall,
Without a cloud to be seen.

Smooth sailing in my moment of maladaptive daydreaming,
I clench my frozen fingers in an instant snap back to reality,
Dry skin nearly crunching in my palms.

I flick my cigarette butt across the sidewalk
And hope they sweep every night,
As I scurry back into my workplace to face the day.