I like the expression "bitter cold";
I like the idea of winter holding a grudge,
a grudge so deep that every time it sees you,
it spits in your face and mutters under its breath,
"Hang on, I'm sorry, one sec;
'You're gonna take the first exit off the bridge,
no, the first, stay in the outside lane
and head across the intersection and take a
left on Howard; no, Howard; Howard,
and take Howard all the way down.
I'll tell you when to stop, thanks.'
Anyway, what were we talking about?"
I would stop global warming If it were up to me,
of course I would, but not just yet -
I would give it enough time to make New York in winter
a little more like Dallas and a little less
like the outer shell of an iron lung.
I've discovered that whiskey tastes better
when it's cooled just slighly
by the melting snow
that drips off the end of your nose
and into my glass.
"Listen hun, I'm sorry but I couldn't fit your skis in the car -
every time I turned a corner they poked into the next lane, and
I couldn't reach around them to turn the radio down.
"I tried tying them to the roof but the ski racks you tacked on at the dealership
to make it look like we were one of the few families
who really did climb rock walls and fly and shit in our SUV
were, it turned out, good for only that and for nothing else -
they were held on with rubber cement.
"I'm thinking we should just fly to Aruba and buy what we need when we get there."
You know what's halfway between
here and there?
Two snowstorms, twenty-six inches worth, a sheet of ice,
a frozen bucket of water under a frozen tap,
one hundred ninety miles of icy road
and the best damn coffee on the planet.
You know what else?
My hands are cold.