i write cold poems

i write cold poems

it stomps each step--
trys to shake the snow on the rug
to not damp the carpet.
it's the shrill wind ripping
at your too thin coat
as you walk Chicago streets
on your birthday.

chilled bones shiver your frame
and scrape and scratch
like a black cat at midnight
at your front door.
you keep her outside.

this little mental machine
has no meaning
until you start it up.