POEM - JANUARY

in my attic room
I watched the snow come down
knowing every flake was against me
“2 to 4 inches,”
they’d say at first
then “4 to 8”
each time
their predictions doubled
like they were betting all or nothing
and every time they lost
the weathermen
were now calling for “8 to 16 inches”
the town hadn’t had time
to clear the sidewalks
from the previous blizzard
men from the dept. or public works
you could see them
in their trucks
humming around Port City
tired faces
empty eyes
fueled on coffee and smoke
and stale hope
wondering when it would all end
when they could go back to the bar
for a cold pint
and a hot meal
“January,” I snorted,
watching those flakes
fall down
each one a kamikaze pilot
in the army of nature’s doom
“and it’s only fucking January.”