The Great Recession
Compulsively I make trays of ice,
keep piling the clouded cubes
into a freezer bin until there are hundreds.
To me they are welcoming & approachable,
suggest a blizzard of plenty like when late
cherry blossoms scatter & carpet
the city park. Every time I open
the freezer I’m ice-rich. It’s a certain
kind of greed. My husband asks why
I’m hoarding ice & I can’t answer. Clearly
I am indulgent & it’s only getting worse.
I’m up again tonight to covet the chilly
squares. I stir them with my cold, blue hands.
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Fantastic poem! I love the “ice-rich” line. Actually, I like all the lines! Nicely done.