Untitled Poem

I don't think I've ever posted this poem; I've never been completely satisfied with it. But I've decided to post it now.

it is September and

I am thinking of snow

the clean of cold

the numbing of ice


and even my mother

is playing at portents



The number you call in an emergency


that's the date it happened"


as I walk by Coney Island's Cyclone

the wind sighs an aria for the dead

at the Aquarium, the penguins seem nervous

in their exposed enclosure

but the beluga whales are serene

within their water world


it is October and

I am dreaming of snow

blurring and blanketing

dotting my city like Seurat


while on a BART train into San Francisco

a mother tells her son and daughter

"And in addition to everything else that's happened

I'm turning forty next week"

things are back to normal in America

when a woman turning forty

is a tragedy


it is November and

I am longing for snow

swirling soft and silent


a plane explodes

I conclude it was mechanical

terrorists want to kill Americans

not citizens of the Dominican Republic


it is December and

I am waiting for snow

but the icicles are electric


and I stare at a pallid sky

faded from the pristine blue

that was the last perfect thing

before September shattered