While I’m getting ready/
to fly out,
a sophisticated,
jet-setting
Mercedes-driving couple
sees my cheesehead,
my John Kuhn autographed Packers jersey,
my Wisconsin wool and leather letterman’s jacket,
and my Packers shopping bag
(filled with cheese
and summer sausage.)
They smile,
and then exclaim: “We like your style!”
Ja, hey!
I’m in Wisconsin,
aina?!?
It’s early morning./
The sun/
sleeps in./
In this winter farmland,/
he,/
lazy like me,/
has not yet shucked
his blanket.
But the moon,/
bright,/
woman-full
and luscious,/
works her way/
through cold/
spindly/
cottonwood-maple-willow/
tree fingers./
They reach skyward
to cup her/
and hold her/
and uphold her/
longer/
until Apollo/
can wake up.
I spied her tonight/
Hovering over a white/
And black frozen site.
Freedom of choice means/
I can turn off Neil Diamond/
whenever I want.
After the pain of/
arctic blasts, hot boiled shrimp smells/
and feels delicious.
She’s trying to get/
back to a normal pattern/
of sleep. Where is love?
I came around a/
corner in the woods and saw/
two paths diverging.
Making snow angels/
won’t ease the pain when you slip/
and fall on lake ice.
When snow fall covers/
the back woods, walk with your aunt./
Don’t wish for lovers.
The thought of sharing/
sacred space can become too/
overpowering.