Two days of thaw
and the ice margins retreat. There
a little mulch and
there
the rooted skirts of
all the trees
showing
the earth again. But the
ice is hard
and slippery
and dirty
and emerging everywhere
like horrible Easter eggs
piles of dog shit
some whole
some slurried
every shade of brown
you can imagine. You wake
in the dark
and feel heavy
and think
how can it be
all so unkind
and for so long?
The last time
you really had fun.
The last time
you could go
anywhere you pleased
and on a bicycle.
The last time
you weren't
working at it.
Not even
bottom of the ninth now
only the top.
And yet.
Pitchers
and catchers
are arranging
for someone to water the plants
and check the house
while they're away. You there
in the batter's box
be prepared
to answer:
what do you want?
what do you want?
None of the rest matters.
Only this.
1 comment:
Here's my first constructive criticism. "February" starts out strong. Rooted skirts is a creative descriptor and you elicit the brown of old snow well. But it falls apart at the baseball metaphor. It's not the baseball metaphor that's the problem so much as you don't seem sure about how to end it so you end it three different ways (baseball metaphor, what do you want, none of this matters). Tighten it up.
word verification: cumsalot
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