Rain on ice and snow and it's all ponding
on the gravel road and in my north pasture.
It's February like a warehouse of old
political campaign placards and buttons...
the lonesome of a pocketknife in the hand
of a meth-ripped night watchman.
Rain on ice and ankle-deep snow
and maybe it won't all freeze
before some coyote breaks leg
lunging for barn cat or shaggy goat.
It's February like canned spaghetti,
cubed hot-dogs, and a Jim Beam thirst.
It's raining hard on TV in a black
and white movie with subtitles
your eyes are too aged to read.
This is February, roads are slick,
and you have a lifetime supply
of crayons: metallic-coppers,
sparklers, and just-plain blue ones.
What you don't have, by right-now,
you sure-as-drizzlin'-shit ain't gettin'.