stew and brew


Everything seems empty
My shoes as I power yoga
On the unsettling warm
Brittle January grass blades
Under the equally foolish
Budding cottonwood tree.
Stores are shuttered
restaurants quiet
Rows of houses
With broken windows
Foreclosed, deserted
Paisley couches on the porch.
(where did everybody go?)
Factories stilled. Bulldozers lined up
No drivers snoozing in the cabs.
Car lots are full
Inches of powdered dust from Montana
On the windshields
Savings and loans soured.
Tellers stand at their stations, yawning.
Semis sail past us on the interstate
Roiling dusty smoke
The January sky has forgotten
How to make snow.
Purple mountains lack majesty
Without their snowcaps
Rows of plow blades
Rusting in sand piles.
Even mildly amusing migrating flocks
Forsook us for cooler climes.
The air is still full
Ripe with agriculture fertilizer
A sort of skunky, beet, beef, goop soup
Usually frozen this time of year.
We bottle stuff inside
Seems unlikely but we’re brewing up
A batch of cabin fever
‘a la ague.
The intoxicating mix starts friction
Like the dog days of summer.
So we drink of it.
Since there’s none else
To assuage the emptiness
Of us.

7 comments

  1. memories everlasting of times yes winters not so harsh, im all for it. shorts always. mild winters – BEWARE the ides of March and the so called spring

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