.

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winter waits
on frozen lakes like
huddled-geese for warmth,
icing something sweet for little boys,
parkas on toboggans in the park, plastic
saucers slicing crunchy thrills and scooping
concrete sounds off sidewalks, spilling steamy
kitchen mornings up with crumpled papers on a table,
fingers tracking sharp-to-flat from blackandwhite and
back to coffee in a cup, the waiting-for-your-call
song I invent when there are way too many
hours in this room or too much midnight
in a day that squalls a coming storm
towards some pencilled notes as
if to cheat geography for touch
from west to east like
salt on fallen
snow

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