Let it Snow

 
The snow and wind work together
at pulling my hood off, then stinging my face.
The thought of home is forced from reality
but my legs stagger regardless.

It's always time for a song
whether you're born, dying or dead
but winter brings music in mocking tones,
especially when the ground is thick with ice
and every careful step looks writhed.

Let It Snow, laments from the radio.
It could only be sung buy a rich man
who's lost count of his beads of sweat
and can't squeeze enough ice
into his cocktails. Parched yet drowned.

I take my wet jacket off while Lucy
licks my boots to taste outside
because even she knows
since the age of prey and predator
the dark has never been, just the dark -

then the smell of fried mushrooms and steak
fans warmth from nostril to fingertip
as the radio still plays the unforgotten.

I'm warm; steaming. Sprawled and fat.
The dogs and children lay tame and peaceful
and for now that stiff bastard got it right.
Let it snow.
Let it grind these streets to their knees.