Battling the Frigid Fiend
I try not to think of the pain--
the short sharp jabs
in my feet
and I can't even speak of my hands.
As I sit cold,
all but numb
at this desk typing
and longing to be out
in the sunshine and warmth,
my endeavors to ignore the imp
who pricks me with his nasty pick
are thwarted by the little bastard--
as he mercilessly
I really do need to find a way to keep warm at work...
The distant thumps of a tight bodhrán punctuate the gaiety of a playful tin whistle as I, lost in reverie, stand amid the frigid wind ...