walking to the outhouse

The ground is crunchy because it’s frozen.
I’m wearing my chainmail lederhosen
and wishing I were still in Morocco
or visiting San Antonio, eating a taco.
But in those places I’d be dressed like Nanook,
six layers of woolens, sweating a brook.
In the words of my rapidly aging mother,
“If it’s not one thing, Son, it’s another.”
In the words of my rapidly aging father,
“Can’t change the weather, bud. Why bother?”

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