The weather forecast for the city
is below zero degrees
Celsius.
But it was silent
about the freezing rain
over piled up snow,
the sort that makes people
fall asleep or warm
themselves up with books,
overhead lights, and
colored blankets.
My poem chills in the
cold, the paper murkier
than the road. I try
to lead it somewhere
but it didn't have
winter clothes to bear
with the rain and
wind.
With every word
frostbitten, lines fall apart,
words give up their
spirit while coffee and melatonin
deliver their coup de
grace,
leaving the TV set
on all night.
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