I've never taken this seriously.
By this, I mean the weather
or the piles of snow and broken asphalt
that divide our lanes of traffic
for the next week.
See, I created a relationship right there,
I assume we share roads
and drink from the same glasses.
I want to imagine you and I
on opposite ends of a city
pushing our weak domestic cars
through narrow alleys,
trying to find an open restaurant.
We'll pay in left over laundry money.
At home, you sit bodliless on an l-shaped couch,
a voice slouched into a burgandy pillow.
You belch space so your stomach can fit
two more handfuls of chips. Maybe sometime
after 10, you'll here a Miles Davis ringtone
and answer Hello hun because it's me.
I won't comment on your diet,
or try and guess what show you're watching
between the circular motions of your hand
skating across the round of your stomach.
A few minutes later we start talking
about tackling the driveway.
My hands start to burn
when you say shovel. We keep talking.
You go into the hall closet and pile up
rubber boots with old dirty water in them,
ripped scarves and a brown knit helmet
that rests above your eyebrows.
About two hours later, it happens.
I park the Taurus near the mailbox
and we shovel. My pile grows faster.
After an hour, I can see asphalt
and cracks with weeds sprouting.
I stab the spade into a rocky pile
and head towards the door.
Your shovel scrapes bare rock.
A few coughs fall with heavy flakes
and I close the door thinking
about the fireplace that needs to be rebricked.
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