Journey to Grant Park

I open the door
and I slip out.
I shuffle my pockets
for the thin key ring,
gloves off and on
before heat dissipates.
I don't let keys
fall into the
cracked ledge.
I hang over the ice
by the cane that
uses half the resources
of my grip, even as my
pinky begins to sting.
My hold on the past
slips. The survival inventory
jolts. I search myself, count
pieces of leather and metal,
and go forth toward
the 18, knowing I
will get to the stop
too late.