Winter Blues Poem by Morgan Michaels

Cold...unusually cold
complain even my most upbeat
and studiously cheerful friends
(who may yet silently
bear me to the grave) , I think,
leaning over the sink
thumb bent under the spout
waiting for the water to get hot.

Not weather for the faint of heart
I later think,
watching the oil
hang in the cold,
cold, soon to be boiling water
dunking a finger in the drink
one the fire will someday singe
leaving behind a blackened ring;

nor for the thin of skin,
I later think, shivering in the curb,
flagging cabs that dim their lights
and homeward crunch
with cold determination
leaving me to decide
which, if not both
kidneys, dead, I should be pleased to donate