Rough grit of pseudo winter: mud and dead trees
down the clogged streets of a town with
no good coffee shops-only fast food and convenience stores.
We stay huddled in our cars gazing at the sky and wishing for magic,
if even in the form of fresh falling snow buds.
No sweet pangs to write- onlydismal
crawl back under the sheets and hope for darkness.
The new puppy comes on Saturday-
but a warm ball to hold. meanwhile the horses continue their optimism, know well and await Spring warm ground
while the cats race in and out of the house, clearly bored
My head aches with boredom
my ears ring
and the sky is dull.
If I could step into a catatonic chamber and breathe sweet nothingness it would seem better than this constant fight.
He won’t go to community service today-
I’m too tired to fight.
He lays on the couch in his boots and snores-
angry with the world
while I seek refuge from his storm.