The fog is dismal,
lamp posts two blocks away,
look like the fainter stars on a clear night.
Everyone shares a smirk,
the inside joke of a warm winter day
in the middle of two hammering fists of cold.
The perspiration swims on your skin,
jumping insects on the flesh,
everyone bundled because of the fog,
limbs kept tight,
inside of jackets and hoodies.
It isn't cold but you expect it to be.
Everybody seems like a finger puppet,
squirming under the dense film of
notfalling water, and the beacons.
the street lights shining godlike, piercing
the fog like the morning light pierces a sleep.
finger puppets, not moving.
in one place, squirming. the masses punch through the fog.
stationary to the naked eye. treading in one single place.
struggling to make their way.
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