Winter Commute

As routine takes hold
And the days drift by,

We salute the frigid morning
And the glaze of all its touched;

Hot breath hitting
The crisp winter air,

Factory smoke affixing itself
To the hovering fog,

Dew’s wet chill
Still hanging on the platform,

Tickling the inhalations
Of stationary commuters

As they sniffle and cough,
Lost in jumbled thoughts,

Shifting patterns
As they stir,

Shuffling words
Like whispering chalk.

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