By Natalia Doan
goop of raspberry trickles
down my hand.
tickles, then freezes
as a breeze
of ease melts
all prior plans.
our hands,
cupped around cheap plastic containers,
turn frigid and dry.
The forecaster warned
that we should stay warm
(minus ten degrees was the high),
yet we stay in our seat,
with the frostbite of feet
and the flakes of snow hailing down from the sky.
the shops closed
and the people returned home,
as we sat
together alone.
Smiles reveal chattering white,
matching the snow of this frigid night.
More snow falls, making us wetter.
Ice cream and snow:
what could be better?