November

by Pat Darnell

I lost my wingtips in the snow
they came off in the deep sludge
next to concrete curbs i trudged
... it happened a long time ago

not quite as long as an age
only as long as an epoch
just under a period possibly
about time of year for migrating birds

i didn't know much about snow
when i lived in Chicago
on a street once lined, you know,
with linden trees and honey bees

it was November i hated most
icy rain that dribbles down my neck
because i never could remember
to wear my scarf nor my hat

strangely how most of the day
was lost in thaws of extremes
in torridly hot buildings
crammed inside sweaty cubicles
... like sweatbox bays

each thanksgiving i would think:
to ask the coming wraiths of winter
should I stay and die one more year
or should I leave this big stinker

twenty years and ten pairs of florsheims
and ignoble frozen digits aching with bunions
invested in salted winter slush and rinds
yes, i did finally leave behind, the Big Onion ...