megatronix

I keep dressing for what the weather was yesterday.
When it was only mildly chilly,
and I had chosen my big winter jacket.
Hands on the wheel,
how I wished I could rip away my fire prison.
Removing the glass barrier,
colder air rushed in and
gave some mild reprieve as we sped down the freeway.

Hours ticked by, the sun and earth spinning as they do.
Time to walk to the dog.
I took out my other jacket,
the nylon shell light in my arm as I scooped it up
and swung it on, like a cape.
We headed out,
into the dark night,
together.
Or he headed out on his own mission, focused, singularly-minded in his work.

I stood on the bridge, waiting, wooden planks beneath me.
Underfoot; salt.
Someone had anticipated the freezing temperatures. The potential for ice.
But I didn't see it; I had looked to yesterday.

The salt crystals, which in their likeness, conjure images of snow,
crunched between the treads of my running shoes.
Snow, though, is a soft crunch.
Salt has cutting edges; it warns
and warms the bridge
from home to the wild outdoors.

The frigid air seeped in through my sleeves,
through the neck of my jacket, down my sternum, gliding easily over my
would-be, should-have-been, supposed-to-be
protective layer.

I keep dressing for yesterday.
And I'm cold.