The Nicotine Curse is Worse in a Midwest Winter

The trees look thin and I am losing weight.

This must be The Fall. I

am wearing one camisole tank top,

grey, beneath one thermal sweater,

brown, beneath one zip up hoodie,

grey, beneath one wool jacket,

dark green. I

am shivering

beneath my cigarette. Forgot

socks. Exhale my breath.

Shake it off.

Cold is in the flocks

of V-shaped bums

gathered under overpasses and bridges. They

get loud

like gulls, squabbling

complaints of such a tight living space and I

in my downtown loft cry

cabin fever;

losing it slowly.

Must be a draft.

//

Midwest winter panic

found in the traffic

backed up on highways 35, 94, and 494

at 3PM on a weekend, suburban

vans packed with bulked canned goods,

cases of bottled vitamin-enhanced water,

screaming toddlers, screeching

breaks. Counting down

to the sound of

one inch

two inch

three inch

four inch snowfalls. Flashing

red and blue, whining

sirens, snow survival kits,

scarves and mittens.

//

Grandma sent ten dollars by mail

with Love and God’s blessing for long underwear.

Ten dollars is

tow packs and I layer

three pairs of stocking tights beneath blue jeans, walk

four blocks to the corner store.

Car won’t start and I

think of investing in a second-hand sled,

five Husky puppies.