Snow covers all our petty arguments
silences our numerous indiscretions
and turns our thoughts, once again,
towards warmth. Overcast morning
the color of gray slush on the streets,
and the rumble of the village trucks
scraping what remains off the street outside
shakes the entire house.
[I am the only one awake to notice this.
Even the cats have learned to ignore
the intrusion. And I have learned
to pay it little mind.]
The ground shakes all the time, now.
Trucks or now trucks.
News channel talking heads dismiss
the phenomenon, focus instead
on election year gaffs and movie start cleavage.
(They learned their lesson in Vietnam. Had they sent
strippers with the reporters, we could've won the war.)
[I don't watch the news, anymore
before three cups of coffee, a smoke
and a good healthy shit.]
Forecast calls for partly sunny skies
bone cracking arthritic cold. Those bits
of remaining pristine snow will glisten
and the slush will shine gray
and the footprints will stick
until Spring erases all immediate traces;
there will be no path to follow
and there will be no proof
that anyone was ever here.