I watch the rusty shopping carts roll by like a train of the wounded. Snow covered and dripping with half formed icicles, they are rushed into the heated store with the frantic pace of the dying.
Aware of the peril, I place my heels against the rough ground of the grate, fearing lest I should be rushed into the warmth along with the metal carts on squeaking wheels that always turn just a little bit too far to the right.
No comments:
Post a Comment