Morning In the Deep South
planning to plummet into the night?
wear your hat, ma’am!
wear your gloves, sir!
cover your skin with a moonlit coat.
no one, should get frostbitten,
somewhere in the deep south.
a place, where one glides, under the sun.
lover’s hands smooth and warm.
sweet tea, to cool one’s heated argument.
the new year has iced dew — frozen mid air.
breath, can hardly move its knees, through
the plenipotentiary rows, of brisk attitude.
pole to pole seems to be cold.
a rash move for the earth!
farenheit’s frozen adieu.
don’t tip your hat, sir,
for your ears might tumble!
don’t remove your gloves, ma’am,
for the lovely tips might fall!
© New Year’s Day 2018
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