Winters Cold Fist
A tempest night sky presses, my lattice windows shake,
as if someone’s being thrown against them, or worse yet,
a yeti's breaking in. They lock with little levers that seem far
too flimsy to keep out the prying fingers of turbulence.
We watched a man plodding outside - obviously a student from Alaska.
He was talking on his phone, his breath a continuous, cold white cloud.
He slipped, careering drunkenly but managed to stay upright by
assuming a surfer-like crouch.
“Where do you think HE’s going?” Lisa wondered.
Forget fall’s polite, amuse-bouche of chill, we’ve been smacked,
full frontally assaulted by the gigantic, cold-fist of winter. “Go on,”
I said, to the weather gods last fall, like an unlucky gambler on a
losing streak. “hit me!”
Now I’m searching Amazon for “flannel underwear”.
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