Wintry Night at Work

"Do we need to go out?"
I smile at the question,
rolling my eyes at what should be
rhetorical, at best,
but then shrug to my
coworker...who was being serious...
"Someone has to,
I'll finish this aisle first."

They return to fronting and
dusting, while I pause
in sweeping to peer
through the silvered glass
of the store's front panel,
or try to,
even breathing upon
the cloudy surface yields
no clear view of the parking lot.

I throw on my coat,
slip hands inside of gloves,
and put my back to the door
as I leave,
someone told me once
that going from hot to cold,
and vice versa,
backwards
makes for less fog upon my glasses.

Sometimes it seems to work,
but today it is a short-lived success
as my breath arises before
I've left the doorway,
pale, wispy, smokelike,
and coats my lenses in shadows
just as obscuring,
if less firm and unyielding,
as those upon the storefront.

I sweep the apron,
shuddering at the touch
of frosty powder
slipping past the dustpan and
caressing its way along
my ankles.
I shake my leg lightly,
taking the moment to look about
the silent silhouettes
of parked cars and halo-topped streetlamps,
then return to work
picking up butts and debris
from the shiny surface
of an otherwise virgin
landscape.