Wintersongs

It's cold in Chicago tonight. Not just chilly. Not just frigid. Cold. The kind of cold that doesn't respect parkas or mittens or scarves of any size, shape, pattern or fabric. And it's been this cold for a couple of weeks.

I know. It's winter in Chicago. It's supposed to be cold. And it's far worse elsewhere, like in New York state, where they've had the same bitter cold, but with more than 100 inches of snow. Here, we have only couple of inches lingering on lawns--depressing, but not opressive--but not on streets, where there's more salt than snow; it is, after all, just weeks until the mayoral election.

In the spirit of the current weather, which the more competent forecasters predict will hold for at least another week, here are five short poems, three of which deal specifically with winter. The other two are more in line with Valentine's Day, but since February 14 usually leaves me shivering in a corner anyway, I've thrown them in anyway.

Enjoy.

One: On the Way Back from Catsitting
Outside the Popeyes
at Broadway and Wilson
the nosferatus cross
the street at will,
pay no attention to
the lights, the colors,
the ranges of gray ice,
the presence of buses
or cabs or snowplows,
instead seeing nothing
but the color of the
traffic jam inside.

Two: Seen from the Brown Line
He's sipping a forty
at eight in the morning
in the alley out back of DePaul.
His hat's tilted sad,
but he's not even mad
he's nothing to do at all.


Three: Observation
after all
these years

i just now
noticed

how much a
strawberry

resembles a
human heart

Four: Three Roses
There are three roses
in the vase on my table.
Only one is red.

Five: February
There are very few
days without clouds. But the sun
is still behind them.