White seizes the city.
Peace blows
into pieces.
Chaos is kicked around
and shoveled.
On a walk to the library
two foggy eyes
sunk inside a snow-hollowed face
accost you.

“Do you have a fu–ing nickel?”
You walk on,
frosty, quiet.
At the crossing,
the doped beggar marches on,
leaving you with,
“You are a fu–ing nigger,”
before accosting his
next potential
fu–ing benefactor.

Below your feet,
the ice takes
forever to melt.
Flurries go about
their business, settling
like drandruff on walkers’
coats, car tops,
a pigeon’s wings.

Guarding a hotel is
a pine tree
bi-polar —
half-covered in
snow moss.