Wednesday, January 29

Snowbound Outhouse


  Snowbound Outhouse

The thrill of getting inside is short lived
As cold fingers fumble with too many layers
I lower myself down unceremoniously
Hot breath expelling a well-worn curse!
Not the season for dallying
As I peer at my porch through the small knot-hole
My house whispers; "Hurry! Warmth inside!"
Anticipation as I stumble for the back door
Inside I throw off my boots the trip already forgotten.


Mag 204

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comments are deeply appreciated and read eagerly by this poet. Thanx so much for stopping by!