The Season of Too-Many-Pockets

I frisk myself, like a beat cop on a punk thief.
"Where's that wallet, you bugger? That phone, those keys?"
I maintain my innocence but I still can't find my stuff.

I'm tellin' you
It's not me that's the felon, it's this damned winter-
It's stolen my breath
It's robbed me of my now-meager dignity,
As the nose runs and the eyes stream.
It mugs me as I struggle uphill among the office towers
Assaulting me with gales thrown in my face.
It trips me up on black ice and brittle bricks of last week's slush.
It's frigid, it's snizzling, it's offering up that "wintry mix" that sounds
so much like a trendy new cocktail
But that's really only a misery-to-go.
Damn it...

I've filed a complaint you know
But I expect it won't be heard for a few more weeks.

-- Louise Outler