Making It Home (Poetry)

The wind’s playing rough with the plane trees tonight
their bare branches lash out at the sky
tall streetlamps stand firm throwing thin gauzy light
as a weather-blown figure whirls by

It’s a struggle — a battle that’s bitterly fought
as the elements beat on his head
one step forward, two back — at the corner he’s caught
like a puppet jerked round on a thread

He leans into the wind and braves its wolf teeth
that rip clean through the cloth of his coat
till the ice in its breath chills the body beneath
penetrates — stops the air in his throat

There is nobody else walking homeward so late
he’s alone on a shadow-filled stage
along with dead leaves tumbling past every gate
and at risk from the gale’s fits of rage

He stumbles and weaves as the gusts roar around
he seeks out any cover he can
beleaguered by cold and bombarded by sound
he’s a storm-battered wreck of a man

Just fifty more yards and a few seconds lull
from each random attack rubbing raw
though his legs feel like lead and his senses are dull
one last dash and he’s through his front door