The radio keeps me company, telling me of damaged cars all over the city.
I am looking for your car to appear, safely, in the street far below.
The snow makes fractal patterns in the dandelion circles of the street lights,
All must be well in my world before i can appreciate them.
My hands have a mind of their own, slowly tearing a paper cup to shreds.
Scarce pedestrians are bent at an angle as they tread carefully, fighting the wind.
When i see your car turn the corner onto our street, i go back and pick up a book
So that when you come in, i can look up, as if surprised, and say "Oh, there you are. What a nasty night."