Snowman coming down from the mountains
driving a late-model Oldsmobile,
swerving behind other vehicles,
spray of dirty snow-water coating his car.
Becoming uncomfortably warm,
his ass slushy in the seat, still he drives.
He wants Marlboros from 7-11,
street noise and grit, he has grown tired of high valleys
and the cold clear still air.
Tops of the mountains hidden in thin gray clouds,
their misty arms try to stop him. Trees whisper
under loaded limbs, calling to him: but he drives.
He remembers something as he passes a slow van,
then it's gone, a thought of the ocean and having salt,
of floating over the earth.
He doesn't have salt now and the tires squeal,
it's urgent, he's melting as he drives toward the city.
© 2000 Mark Giffin