— 22 February 2004 —
I found this poem whilst rummaging through an old Zip disk and I think it was written in 1995. Just thought it was an interesting find and I offer it up here.
I had walked in on the conversation;
or was it a speech?
She was saying, “…and if that’s the armpit, then Anchorage
is the butthole. It sucks up here.” Blah, blah, blah…
And I played along with it.
I should have just told her to leave if she hated it so much.
So far this winter I have scraped the outside of the windshield
about 10 times.
I’ve scraped the inside of it almost everyday.
We went for a drive and it was colder in the car than outside.
We went skiing and it rained.
Some people seem to think that by owning a 4X4 they can drive
four times faster than in a regular car.
Of course, I would too.
We slip on the walkway, scrape windows, drive cars that warm up
only when we get to where we’re going.
We layer clothing and waddle around, “I can’t put my arms down.”
We ask questions like, “You mean suicide is an answer?”
We endure the darkness, the cold, the strange weather,
the angry retail workers, and “Why didn’t I get a cat? or at least train
this dog to shit in the toilet!”
And we endure it all for what?
We endure it for the small mounds of snow that cover the last
piles of leaves that were left. For every snowball thrown,
up until the one that connects with our heads. For snow angels and speeding
inner-tubes. For the squealing child and hesitant cat
experiencing their first snowfall.
We do it for the no-sound of falling snow.
So walk your dog, and shovel the driveway.
Scrape, smile, and sled.
And leave if you don’t understand what it is all about.