Do you mind if I wait?

Do you mind if I wait? That wind,
I've never felt so cut up. My fingers
are hardly there, can't even bend
to meet my palm. Ten little integers,
I mean digits, frozen like fudgecicles.
Well, vanilla pudding pops, I guess.
My own fault. Riding my bicycle
on a day like this. I'm not the blessed
type, to hold on to homemade mittens
when I really need them. It's like
what happened to my Uncle Olet.
Drunk in Duluth, took home the wrong bike:
turned out to be owned by Mr. Tom Bodet.
I've got another you'd hardly believe...
Warm enough? I suppose. I'll just leave.