Eating Glass

I hate to go out in late January
Among the narrow, dry, icy roads
To eat glass from my windshields
The frame bent, a penalty
To receive for feeling too good
And as I am standing in the cold
Refraining from letting the obscenities
come out of my mouth
The words on the tip of my tongue
Just as snowflakes were when I was young
Beautiful, four-lettered,
One-syllable words
Which I screamed, hollered and yelled loudly
In the silent, startled, icy black language
Of a cold dry night in late January