The Plows

By then, simple questionshad grown blades: you're not even going to shave

came to mean,I don't like the way you look,

or that's how I came to hear it.On certain days she'd say, do you love me today?

and I would say, even more than yesterday,and she'd say, that's impossible!

and I'd say, it's true, and would forget,as I convinced her, sitting near her in the booth,

the nights spent fumingmutely through our rooms,

hardly saying anything, the groan of pipestightening inside the walls, following each other silently to sleep

until in the night we startled awakefrom the sound the plows made

dropping their heavy lower lipsagainst the pavement, and she'd rise, and I'd follow,

and from the window watchthe wet red brake lights disappearing

at the turn, and the new plowed streets shiningblack as snakes

amidst the piled snow.