he pressed his cracked fingers to the
crank of the snow-blower, tendrils of
gas curling 'till they were thicker than heavy
the apricot-speckled lettering choked its
excess: pollution clinging to the tree-bark, swimming
through syrup cement. You Do Know That's Hurting The Environment?
Yes, Yes, But We Won't Be Needing It Anymore, Will We? [sputter-sputter] the metal skewered to its stop, coughing
as it squirted out one last breath,
dry-heaving chemical-creaked soup
onto pavement, blue
dripping from the
even as i stumbled, feet crunching
[smog flowing like lava from a
linoleum ribcage] --
the air cuffed my wrists,
Spring Is Here.