Walking home from work . . . in winter

Walking home from work . . . in winter
       A poem by Scott Petersen (circa – a winter night in 1985)
Wind blows cold in my face.
Always.
Never sun.  Freezing, biting, eye-closing wind.
Every icy step is uphill. Every step a journey of a thousand miles.
Hooks pull.
Hunger, thirst, exhaustion and darkness.
With no end.  No remorse.
Wind pushes me back. Always.
Never rest. Mind racing. Muscles aching.
I press forward.                                                                                                        Each thought a labor.
Each thought – a painful ache.
Each thought concludes that there is no end.
Yet every passing minute – closer to the goal.

Bleak darkness speaks.
Always.
Desperate for sleep, I cry for the night.
Eyes heavy. Heart heavy. Nearly the end.
But there is a dim light.  I am home. Late again.                                            But home. Finally.
And dinner. . . . .
Boiled chicken. Frozen broccoli. Asparagus.
And cranberry juice. . . . .

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