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
now that we’ve cancelled cable.
Makes me grateful
for snow in April.