Poem: Frost

A poem about some of the various coldnesses in the world

It’s cold already, the walk to work,
my breath blows imaginary smoke rings…
This government would like them
to be less imaginary. Dreams are free

when you get your tax cut. I walk past
the same guy, always asking for money.
In other poems he is rewarded by virtue
of signalling…but this is my poem

and keeping my money doesn’t make me
a bad person. There are other things
I’ve written that could easily prove my rot,
at least in the minds of others. In my mind,

the fact that I’m thinking of one day
dropping coins in his box — or maybe
even something of note — means I’m
sorta halfway there. (He’s living on

thoughts and prayers). A few more
smoke rings, my imaginary ones, his
govt-approved but not govt-assisted,
and we’ll both get to where we’re going.