Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Minus one, light flurries


In the open subway stretch
between Victoria Park and Warden
the playground is flooded and floating
with broken Antarctica ice
and the children are tobogganing
on two centimetres of snow
and dead grass.

Why can't I write another boring poem about the weather?
It's all I ever talk about anymore.

An aversion to inclement weather is
the only thing I have in common
with the elevator passengers,
bike couriers and
mail carriers,
now that we’ve cancelled cable.

Makes me grateful
for snow in April.

2 comments:

Dorkmaster Flek said...

I have a theory. Everybody I know hates that small talk you make about the weather and stuff in the elevator. What if we made small talk about said stupid small talk? I bet they'd go for that, just nobody has the nerve to do it.

Mary said...

Yeah, being in a large building with many floors I know all about awkward elevator talk. And although I do bump into a lot of friends to whom I actually have meaningful things to say, there are always those people you've only ever seen around, or met once or twice... and you can't act like you don't know each other, yet you don't know nearly enough about each other in order to ask anything significant. SO. AWKWARD.