The ice king

Seven weeks ago the snow rolled in on frigid wind, laid a hockey rink on a nation. The Americans bought boots and spikes, while I’ve been content with slipping. No salt is dumped off the backs of city trucks; guess it’s just the living. With the gopher’s hole iced over I’ll call it now: seven more weeks of winter.

Smells like February

Wind whipped through office towers,
rubbing sandpaper faces,
and freezing snot to upper lips.

While the elderly swept their driveways,
we dropped ash on the sidewalk,
offered no directions,
tugged our scarves tighter.

The gate was open,
lead to lazy animals,
unused pathways,
rows of graves.

The air was stiff, cool.
The feces lifted steam,
but didn’t stink.

In the end, the sun is shining

The snow is turning to rain. The traffic light blinks red, then green. He leans in across the puddle and says to me, “Call me tomorrow? I think I’m ready for the apocalypse. I just have to get groceries."