Frozen, Bound, and Feeling Down...

As the humming streetlights yawn
    Rust orange
And corroding snowpiles mock it
    Back
We feel our way through conversations
And dirty, frozen streets.
As the city's frostbit boulevards
    Braid tight about our feet.

You said, "This town's a joke."
I think this town's a tomb.
13, 14, 15 blocks
To freeze our fingers
Solidify simplified thoughts.
And choke down more half-assed denial
Even through verbal admission
That we're living in the capital
Of the Great State of Defeat

Congealed lumps inside our throats
    Show through
Just a little more than we
    Intend
Frozen voices lay silent now
Inside our frosting larynxes
As the culture's coldest binding cords
    Close fast around our wrists

...Here...in the 43rd most walked on
...of the lower 48

Meander through cracked streets
Kick through last year's crumbling bones
4, or 5, or 6 more blocks
To blow on fingers
Inter exhumed thoughts
And reach down into coat pockets for half-assed warmth
Even though there's none to be had.
We curse our luck and sorry state
In the Great State of Defeat

As impervious streetlights pour
    Rust orange
And soak cold eyeballs with the
    Same
We find our way to locked back doors
From these freezing, dirty streets.
As the country's frostbit borders
    Close in tight around our necks.