Stuck

The sky is a sheet of unwashed glass,

and the morning air is a bite in the face.

I pulled on the coat from the back of the mass

of winter junk in the closet space.

The zipper caught on a missing tooth,

three inches up from the frozen hem.

It’s a jagged, brass-colored piece of truth

that I’m stuck in the middle of a winter phlegm.

The crosswalk sign is a blinking hand,

telling me to stay right where I stand.