Booted feet set to street
covered in ice, not melted by grit.
A missed spot on which to
slip, to fall, face near dirty
grates steaming from underground
as the cars rush by, exhaust
fumes pungent clouds, mixed with marzipan
– a scent of a childhood long passed –
from the bakery, its heat motherly
invite to go inside and eat; to warm
a belly ravenous from cold.
Picking herself up, she smiles.