Routine

By: Christopher Russell April 8, 2015 

He coughed and wrapped the scarf thrice around. The boots’ laces were weathered at tips. Layer upon layer laid upon his lean frame, He planted the cigarette on his lips. And wrapped the scarf around, finally. Once outside, the air stabbed like needles, The breath froze in his nose, crystalline. Each morning he smoked before the days’ drudgery.

The coffee percolating inside like his cough. This northern city he went for his studies, The drinking was needed to blind the cold And the cigarettes, a sneaking refuge.

He finished quickly and turned inside, The railing grabbing his moistened mittens. He swore and coughed, kicking the ice. The warmth inside stabbing like needles. Each morning he thought about the south.

Contributor's Note: Christopher Russell loves literature, film, music and football.