leaves and ghosts
and other litter along the
street and into doorways,
so going out, I wrap up warm,
encased for battle in
coat and gloves
and woolly hat -
my sword a walking stick.
Thus prepared, out I step
with confidence and purpose.
My armour, though,
cannot withstand
the world's onslaught
of indifference.
Its icicles grow from the ground
and pierce my feet and make me bleed;
a freezing wind blows
me and leaves
and other litter
through the streets
and into filthy corners.
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