First Frost

My breath is a series of small, gray failures.

The key won’t turn; the metal is seized

in a grip of invisible ice.

I lean my shoulder against the door

as if the heat of my frustration

could melt the tumblers.

My knuckles are turning the color of beets,

scraping against the chrome handle.

I just want to sit in the seat

and wait for the defrost to start,

but the world is currently locked.