Sanding the driveway at dawn,
I count the elements conspiring
to break my most useful bones.
Ice, snow, a stumbling north wind.
Parodic gestures could undo me,
so I walk so limberly Charlie
Chaplin could have taken lessons.
You watch from the living room
where the cats stretch and critique.
Winter nails its imperatives
as firmly as Martin Luther did.
The unraveled distances ply
snow-spritz and muscular clouds.
Summer houses beside the lake
gasp with loneliness, each room
a study in departed spirits.
Later I’ll walk out on the ice
to hear it boom and crackle.
Two feet thick. No risk of drowning,
although the fish suspended
in semi-hibernation could use
a good laugh, their boredom etched
so deeply on their expressions.
I want to stand in the middle
of that massive optical illusion
and pretend I’m walking on water.
The driveway is drivable again.
The cats applaud with yawns while
you turn away your damp outlook
and return to counting the spoons.
William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.
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