Masquerade

I tread the slushy sidewalk, the bitter wind matching the taste in my mouth. Dirt-flecked snow, dun concrete. Walking, always walking, I think. Waiting at the traffic light, I raise eyes to the horizon. The trail of parking lots to the west offers a wide view of the peach pink orange sky (is there a word besides salmon?). I blink and realize that it's still light, it's the end of my working day and still it's light, and there are tons of people around me dressed in snowman/woman costumes. Masquerades of urban arctic explorers holding steaming coffee cups in skidoo-gloved hands, missing their dogsleds. Cyclists dressed as bee-loving cat burglars, black balaclavas and jackets bright yellow, Sorels heavy on the pedals, bikes emblazoned with small red blinking lights switched on and out of synch, two-wheeled carnivals, and still it's light. I watch my breath engrave my mortality in cloudy curls of calligraphy until the sun sinks and the spectacle is closed for the day.

Later, by the butter yellow light of a kitchen lamp,
I bake nutrient vehicles masquerading as
oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.