The grass is mottled
trampled gray,
and streetcurb
debris still languishes,
glinting
like piles of old slag—but
away!
those idiot
sepia birds go—
cheeping,
insisting
it's spring.
And so,
all of the weathermen
on the TV,
trying
like hell
to look smart
with all that artificial
light in their eyes,
repeat it.
And repeat it—again and again and again,
as if they're trying
to clear all the little,
black dusty chunks
of coal from their throats.
