Allright already. By less than popular request...

I've caved and have written a "poem" in response to the numerous (really, too many to count -- but seriously if you want to see a funny response to internet opinion polls, check this out) requests. I'm not the stickler for perfection that Mr. Herrick claims to be, but here it is:

My gloves, slight like paper sacks,
were no match for the cold
that kept my fingers curled
even after I'd let go the bike's handlebars.
I knew they were too thin when I bought them,
knew they'd be useless
in winter's more insistent moods,
but I paid for them because they were thick enough
for most days, because they turned the wind away
if not the cold. And yes,
I bought them too because they fit
in the shallow pockets of my wool coat.

This small trade isn't all we make daily
between the time we wake and the time
we sleep again. We see it always
in little concessions to convenience:
books left behind to lighten the pack's weight
or the bag too heavy to counter every possibility.
This poem could just as easily be
about pockets too small to hold my thick warm gloves.