Unbuttoned

The automatic doors hissed open

and the air didn't bite back.

I stood there with a gallon of milk

feeling the wool of my coat

suddenly turn into a cage.

By the curb, a man in a t-shirt

is leaning against a lamp post

while the slush turns to grease.

The asphalt is sweating.

I can see the steam rising

off the damp, black belly of the street.

It’s too much light

too fast.