February Contemplations: blank verse

The smell of February catches in
my lungs; a thick and cloying, clogging stench
that clings to clothing, skin and hair, until
you cough it up in rasping, wheezing gasps,
while runny noses bleed it out in long
and ropy strands of misery, sickness, and
disgust. The sky hangs heavy with the weight
of it, solemn, dismal, near to breaking.
If February had a taste it would
be bitter-sharp, I think, not crisp, but sour.
A biting taste that lingers on the tongue,
like sordid snow in shameless patches on
the street. Footprints in the slush all seem
to ask, what makes the shortest month so long--
Bad luck, or just bad breeding? Overlooked
beside the proper months, this stunted, strange
unwanted child still aches for recognition.
Even as March shoulders it aside,
this flavor- February- still remains.