Wednesday, January 29, 2020


No one gives a shit
about the pristine fluffy snow
drifting gently to the ground
in late January.
A new inch or two
on top of all the rest,
covering the frozen dog crap,
soon to be trampled
by boots and car tires,
soon to turn
into dirty, gray, salty slush
on the streets and sidewalks.
And you don’t want to shovel again,
and you don’t want to scrape
your frozen windshield,
and traffic will be slow today,
and your feet will never be warm again,
and the sky will never be blue again,
and you’re just sick of it all,
and why do you even live here?
And if, while driving to work that morning,
you happen to notice the black tree limbs
blanketed in white,
you might think,
oh that’s pretty,
but honestly,
you’d be fine
if you never saw another flake.

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