February Morning
Winter thaw – last weekend.
Now, sparkling drops
coat my car’s rusted body.
I attack – a towel, a broom,
blue ice scraper.
My fingers turn red, hair falls flat.
Wet. Cold.
My car won’t wake up.
I love mornings like this –
icicles in my lungs,
cold bubbles in my bloodstream.
Quiet, pure, cold.
Telephone lines, fire hydrants:
a landscape.
It is still morning.
The snow falls in my eyes;
my car awakes from his stupor.
I crouch inside his warm metal case,
drive off blindly into the snow.
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