Fifteen miles west of Boston
and mostly the news is of small creatures
and snow. A self-appointed snow inspector,
I tune in to the weather: snow and sun,
sometimes clouds or showers or wind
or chattering letters that spell chilly.
As with everywhere I’ve lived
the forecasters look like
Vanna White surrogates or
used-car salesmen. Still,
they grow on you
like poker pals upping the ante—
with shifts of pressure.
Sometimes the weather calls their bluff.
Still, they, at least, seem to know
where they are. Right now
a light snow is falling,
a steady downpour
of flakes fine as gnats.
To her usual, “What’s up?”
I give my old friend the usual answer:
“Same old shit shoveled a different way.”
I bundle up. Before I thread my fingers
through the shovel’s handle,
it flashes a conspiratorial grin.
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2003
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