JANUARY MORNING
The calm between storms on a January morning,
And you have the nerve to ask how I can be so sad
To be so snowbound and lost in winter's solemn grip.
After a week of January splitting snow from bitter lips,
Making my immobility somehow worse
My wounded leg all the more sore,
My doctor's appointments cancelled, and a future left unsure,
What can I say of the brutish child named January,
Swollen dick belching up six inches of white stuff
Soon to turn mawkish shades of black and gray,
A stern middle finger to anyone who dares to linger in its way.
Clearing a pernicious path for febrile festinating February,
Its snarky snarling twisted twin who floods the creeks and estuaries,
Stealing in stealth across these swollen winter sands,
Over the rivers and valleys and the vaunted hinterlands
Wreaking holy havoc on the highways and the hapless sliding cars.
Blocking out a clear night sky, obliterating stars.
Still you have the nerve to ask me, why I cringe at the mention of cold.
Why I snag myself in tarnished dreams asleep in winter's fold.
The calm between storms on a January morning,
And still you have the nerve to ask me how I can be so sad,
To be so snowbound and so utterly adrift
After a week of January spitting snow from icy lips.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2024
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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