January

He walks in the door like the biggest guy in the bar.
We sit by the fire gripping our hot toddies. He drinks 

from a frosted mug, sends chills through the room 
with a stare as immovable as the block of ice 

in his chest, his meat locker breath on our necks 
though he's in a corner booth. He'll drink the bar dry, 

ask for more with a grin frozen on his deathly countenance. 
Icicles hang from eaves until Spring, a last minute reprieve.