Her’s are snowflakes 
starting again. I don’t like my good spirits. 
Hibachi beef and veggies with 
yum-yum sauce occupy the counter 
growing cold. The can of Dr. Pepper 
grows warm. Pickles offers me ass 
to wake me from my sudden nap—
purr running like a furry angel.  
This is all. I plan to shovel. 

It’s a soft plan.  Even with 
sealed alpaca lined gloves, 
the wind 
off the Connecticut River 
drops cold, lower than 
a witch’s left teat in a brass bra—
and the webbing between 
my blistered thumb and forefinger erodes 
as certain as my Kentucky memories. 

In ’78 we cut coupons to save money during the blizzard.  
Going out, 
Papi’s black Camaro ate my hand 
in the door. Today, I am sure to shed skin 
long before loosening my parka. 
There is day-old ice to shove side-to-side on the drive, 
and this work is the only path to domestic bliss.  

It’s dark before 5 p.m.—I’ll clear the way tonight 
before she’s back, or time will find me back 
at Dunkin’, just as lonesome 
as those years when we met. I will flirt 
with the oldest register clerk, order an iced coffee 
with cream and four Splenda, and imagine myself 
at her flop in her lap.  Don’t fail.  

Homeless, I’d ask my brother for space on his couch, 
mock gratitude and sip dumbly from a blood orange 
San Pellegrino bottle.  
I’d pretend. I’d pretend to enjoy 
my sister’s Southern-fusion cooking, 
her cheesy-chili pepper fried grits 
and honey, 
despairing 
to ever find safety again.