Day After Snow, 2012

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.