I'm tired of stomping my shoes
Before I walk into a building,
Bound by the grim etiquette
Of dutifully shedding slush.
I'm tired of looking for my other glove
And embarrassed by how I cling
To the hope that I'll find it,
As if this winter should be any different.
I'm tired of mincing along sidewalks
In that stupid flat-footed waddle,
And hearing about your ice dam
And imagining panty hose on your roof.
I'm tired of looking out on a world
Sketched in pen-and-ink,
And dream of when Dorothy opened that door.
Mostly, I want that door.
I'm tired of knowing that Per Hansa's body
Wasn't found until the next May
Yet unthawed after seeking refuge
In a distant haystack.
I'm tired of coping with March,
Which isn't that different from coping with February.
I dream of the day that I grow tired
Of looking for my sunglasses.
