Jean L. Kreiling: Winter Crosswalk

You hesitate before you cross, and hold
your scarf up to your chin; you hate to pause,
prolonging your exposure to this cold,
but drivers don’t always obey state laws.
Since some won’t stop, you linger at the curb
and soak up sleet, meanwhile resenting those
who speed past—neighbors in your own suburb
who just don’t care about your frozen toes.
And those who merely slow down can’t be trusted,
their tires as likely as your boots to slide;
you’ll wait, eyelashes quickly ice-encrusted,
until this walk seems less like suicide.
When you’re convinced the cars will let you pass,
you cross, and hope you won’t fall on your ass.