Brett K Harlow

Salvation

The snow-flakes flurry slowly around your cardboard box. True winter’s cold wraps around your fingers like a snake crushing its prey. You had lived through a few winters in the alley you called home, the box providing little shelter from your frozen hell. Water trickles from your nose and freezes to your thick black moustache. You are thankful you are able to grow the thick bushy beard that hangs from your chin, keeping your face warm. You watch as the yellow cabs race noisily on the main street and dream of warmer days.