Writing, On Ice

February 16, 1994|By Bill Jones

The tendons in my thumb throb hard from chopping

and quiver as I try to scrawl these lines.

The city's under siege from rotten weather;

we've shoveled out, it seems, a thousand times.

Some poet-type is sitting in his kitchen,

seeking inspiration in the ice,

looking for a word that rhymes with ''crystal,''

crossing out ''such beauty'' once or twice.

I've had enough of those rose-colored verses.

I've had enough of visionary talk.

If poets want to share the joy of winter,

send them over here to clear my walks.

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