Outside Baltimore

 

                      

 

Waking to the grey sunshineless light that

       falls over my bed covers

I rise and go to my window with its

       suburban snow view

The perfect white on the parking lot, like my

       own typing paper, and then the cars

       come to write their poetry

I dress like the day, grey and black with

       hard boots, so as to stomp

       the people down

I go outside where the air covers me in

       softness that I am unable to

       reach through

The smell of snow long gone from the air and

       the snow on the ground turned into

       slush, like the slush that fills the sky

I long to be two months and ten miles

       forward, sitting at the Inner Harbor

       in the spring sun