Snow in April Sucks
A warning to my reader: this poem is going to be
crass and profane and generally unapologetic, though
this opening might (ironically) suggest otherwise,
and it will most certainly reach no satisfying epiphany,
no sock-it-to-you moral, the kind of pithy observation
we all crave, the sort that lifts the top of your head.
Woke up at 6:30 on a Saturday and couldn't fall back
into dreamland, piss off sleep, damn you, dragged
my sorry ass out of the warm covers to discover
a blanket of white bullshit covering all the wanting-to-be
grass and the truck in the drive and the wanting-to-be-
budding branches on the gnarled grieving trees--
this is an unacceptable situation, I told the powers-
that-be, if there are powers, hiding somewhere up there
in the indifferent portions of the universe, this is just
jank fucked up crazy ass depressing shit and I don't
think I can take it anymore but then I did take it,
took it into the kitchen where Dave was poring over
a cookbook and daydreaming about getting his Harley,
once the suckass snow melts, optimistically suggesting
it might happen in two hours, and I sat down with
coffee and a silly collection of surreal short stories
and a really bad attitude and slowly but surely began
to think in irritated all-suffering triplets, which is a sign
of life going on, certainly, as it does, despite the fucking
persistence of winter, only I don't know if it's a good sign
or a bad one, making bad poetry out of ordinary despair.
.
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