Oh, the bitter cold.
Not just the temperature, but the eyes.
I am the minority.
Hues of browns, blacks, purples, blues.
What's left -- 10 percent.
It's some man in a business suit,
Headed to where?
Or a homeless man asleep,
Conquered by the drink.
I look over my shoulder,
Has it come?
That steeple in the clouds?
But then the sky was blue.
And none of it mattered anymore.
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