Another day another fight

Another day, another fight,

though no one speaks it out loud.

Just the glowing numbers, stark and white,

screaming at the shivering crowd.

Sixty-five. Again. A bitter chill

creeping through the cubicle maze.

Some phantom hand, with a iron will,

insists on these sub-zero days.

I pull my cardigan tighter, rub my arms,

watch my breath fog slightly in the air.

It's a small war, full of silent harms,

this constant battle, beyond repair.

Who craves this arctic, this frozen sting?

Just wish someone would let the damn thing swing.