Stop and go in snow, in traffic, mother
Of course it’s the weather, noneother.
Midwestern December seasonal jokes –
As many as there’s names for Snow in Alaska,
Outcries and inside laughter.
Generously long routes, craning to savor day’s last light,
Good behavior rewarded, we finally turn right —
Towards the porch lit arms.
They wear glowing, wicks smoking, closed farms.
White, blue, red halos dripping, wax tendrils
Waning slowly, gasping on card crowded mantles.
But for one home, at once a sudden single
Moment and no more.
Staring, sending messages,
Minding the change. Her sharp, shrill voice calls:
I’m fine, no really fine, go worry about the environment.
Gulf side store-bought guilty cinnamon sweetness,
She’s now explaining,
(No patience anymore, as though you appreciated it?)
I change. I lay my gloves, toss my driving wet scarf
In the canyon eroded onto the old twin beds.
Returning, in a few moments all slippers and robes,
Old reruns of TV, family, historical arguments
Hidden in revisions and mistakes.
Taciturn remarks about topless cars,
About wild Mustangs and scorching scars.
Carbon, dating with all four on the floor.
Eternal dark hands latch white storm doors,
Snow pushed up on lawnless grounds.
Signs, wired ice knives — shattering, creaking, pointing down
Augers the night of Damocles, whose sword flashes
Screaming in the dark: stop, go, stop and go.
Spring brings black pitch tar steaming fill and rising streams.
He’s certain of the weather, again, I know.
When Minnesota blood runs south via the mouth
Of the Mississippi River byways and embankments,
The answer spits out as ice and precipitation.
The coin fed arcade witch or gypsy — your good fortune in hand.
Our God instructs with tiny gifts of anticipation,
And I, the torch of pain as a paper angel holds her wand
I sing of shame, tuning forks, and rabbit ears.
Why it’s so plainly true, your grin widens coldly, I suppose.
As a frightening hand clocks to and back a metronome,
Heavenly-made answer saves the wost worn.
How wrong, again, or all along, again.
Weather and evening corralled the horses inside.
Our engines idled, cooled, then died.
Suddenly yet expectantly (as ice or apple pie)
Boring holes in us with collapsible eyes —
Like summer left us in an awful rush,
So the bent boys gasped
As tall awkward girls cried.