Literature
Morning's Rush
My hands are freezing,
My gloves offer little protection,
From the cold that seeps under,
Assailing my ankles.
One more block,
That's all I need.
I should pedal faster,
But there's a busy road.
I have to stop.
Cursing my habitual way
Of being nearly late daily,
I wait for a spell,
Until a kind soul stops.
One more block,
That's all I need.
I race down the street;
I weave between cars
In the parking lot I loathe.
Bike safely stowed,
I shuffle inside to escape
The cold I hold so close.
It's too warm in here.
Can I go back out?