With one final pull, the air was polluted with an odor
Of pungent gasoline and noisy whirring. The man grasped the
Smooth aluminum handles of the snow blower.
Its rapid vibrations sent thousands of tiny needles into his hands.
A small grimace formed on his numb lips as he trudged out of the garage and
Entered the brutal winds of the snowstorm once again. The sun
Appeared as a sleeping giant, shrouded in an infinite ocean of lifeless clouds.
Even the few rays of light cast upon his scraggly face seemed to chill his skin.
A thick blanket of white smothered the drive way.
His weary eyes scanned the expanse of snow for a place to begin,
And after a moment a fountain of snow erupted from the
Snow blower’s slanted nozzle.
As he walked on, some kind of dull happiness crept upon him
The cold wiped away his thoughts of a monotonous identity,
Constantly perched in a nest of work calls and paper work.
He wanted to escape all of that,
So he slowed his pace to that of a stumbling undead.
The snow he was removing blew back in his face,
A bath of ice more cleansing to him than a hot shower.
With one final push, the drive way had been cleared.
The next instant he was thawing out inside,
Gulping down a Heineken with quiet, sorrowful eyes.