I have grown tired of slush-covered streets and Ramen noodle
dinners. My poems come
slowly and with far less frequency than I claim. Most nights
named “at home writing”
involve too few words and too much wine. My weeks have
consisted of half-working the
job I already quit and half-writing the
applications for jobs to replace it, and all I want
right now is another beer
and another bowl of greens and another episode of some poorly
written but
somehow still captivating television show.
With all of this snow, ALL SIX FEET, I used to long for
mountains
but now I long for flamethrowers.
You are an animal I have not yet raced with, city streets,
and you are a lot faster than you look.
You’re a relentless competitor. I have
gotten good at convincing myself that I am
winning when I am not. I have spun
my wheels in Shenandoah river sands and Oklahoma
gypsum pits. I welcome the traction of your concrete.
I’m growing accustomed to your grays and browns, but
I need to see your vibrant colors. I need to smell your
breath.
I know you take far more pride in your presentation than
these odors
of salt truck diesel fumes, these dressings of oily snow and
months-buried
garbage. You are way, way sexier than that. I know this
because I’ve been
hanging with your poets. Your artists. Your musicians. I’d
love to sashay
with them across your parks, but that’s a little difficult
when our heels keep getting frozen to your skin, Chicago !
The walls of my apartment are alive, but choking on the
snowmelt. My carpet
is soaked for the cracks in the foundation. There is a
massive hole in my kitchen floor where I have placed my dreams. I bury them in
coffee grounds and cigarette ashes. They make for good compost, but I’m ready
to move them to outdoor plots. I want to help your colors reveal themselves.
I’m finally putting down roots.
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