Cold Day in Hell

 

His handprints burn into the layer of frost

on the windshield of his old Buick.

Palms red, he covers new frost

until the melting is complete.

His shoes crunch the frozen layer of snow

as he steps his way to all the windows,

repeating the process.

Stiff fingers fumble for his car key.

He sits gloveless behind the steering wheel,

turns the ignition.

The car coughs to sickly life.

Breathing puffs of January’s

stiff air toward the clear windshield,

he sets a cup of water on the seat beside him.

He wonders how long before it freezes.

 

He drives two slow miles to a park

where children wrapped four layers thick ice skate.

He parks his unheated car at the curb,

kills the engine.

 

Watches.

 

The ice is too thick to melt today,

the children seem safe.

No one of them can slip through the ice’s sudden crack,

then grab above them to pull into the dark water

the start of a scream.

Each parent watching from the pond’s edge

will open the door to a heated new car

and drive them to a heated home

where icy emptiness is not their well-earned wage

for a moment’s negligence.

 

He lifts the cup of water,

recalls vaguely the welcome

warmth of hot coffee in winter.

He sprinkles water on his bare head,

opens his window to icy air.