I know Hugh’s blueblack cold
Early Sundays of my youth
Stacks of newspapers and inserts, equal in height
folded and rubberbanded into two carrier bags
One tied to my handlebars
the other muled over my shoulders
Print scented hands slid into worn gloves
snot-freezing air dissipates the fleeting warmth
The ritual precarious balancing act of the first cranks
bags sway as papers shift
acquired skill makes momentum a friend and not a foe
The street is clear where the cars have been. But
sidewalks are more random, either
A white moat, filled with crookt ice-edged footprints
formed in the moments of melt
Or shovel graced highways with driveway exit ramps
each chuck lightens the load,
The gradual lightening and light
is a welcome reminder that I’m a quarter of the way
purple skies are kindred to my freezing toes
Each are measurements of time
One of how much I have left
and one of how long I’ve been out.
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