Poem: February


By Dave Hood

On the fifty-first floor
Of a skyscraper,
I watch from my window
At work—the winter storm.

All day, snow falls,
Transforming the highway
into a parking lot with
no empty spots.

Automobiles and trucks creep
up snow covered streets.
Pedestrians slip and slide
As if learning to skate
on icy sidewalks.

An incessant, howling winter wind
Carves snow drifts into abstract sculptures.
The storm has sunk the city further
into the depths of winter.

In the evening, after a painful commute
along snowy streets, taking double the time,
I arrive home, shovel knee-deep snow
from the drive, building piles like mountains.

After a hardy dinner of beef stew,
I relax in bed, drift into sleep,
Listening to a noisy plow passing,
clearing the street of snow and ice.

Next morning, I wake,
shower, shave, brush my teeth,
lather on deodorant,
dress in my suit, white shirt, red tie,

prepare a cup of hot coffee,
glance through the frost-bitten window,
notice long, sharp icicles,
Like butcher knives,

hanging from the eaves,
and more snow falling,
Like a vandal with a can
Of white spray paint,

Covering the windshield,
Of my black Chevy cruise,
Parked in the drive,
Waiting for the journey
back to work.


About Dave Hood

Lover of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction. Professional photographer and writer. Without the arts, life would be rather mundane, like a walk down the same old path on a dull day.
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