Snow Angels
It was all my fault.
I could blame Frank.
He was the one who said
Let’s go to Montreal and see Miss Austen 2009.
But I know, the minute he asked, I was there.
An excuse to adore bottles not jugs,
watch my paycheque disrobe to that heavy beat.
Before I even looked at Miss Austen
through my shot glass, I knew this was it -
no point going home, not even for last call.
Now I walk by the kids’ school.
Not to see them. No one’s ready for that yet.
I go to stand in the playground,
and imagine them there.
Today, there is a collection of men
made from last night’s snow fall,
standing in the ball diamond
with raisin mouths and apple eyes.
Two snowmen are off by themselves,
holding hands with branched arms,
wearing hats and scarves I recognize.
I hope spring never arrives.
© 2010 Mark Kempf
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