Skipping and slipping on the snow-bound street,
Sometimes splashing through shallow pools,
Sometimes sinking in slush-streaked piles
The ploughs pushed out of traffic's tracks.
A car traces curves to pass a truck
And splatters me with half-frozen muck
Made when melting flakes mixed with mud.
When at last I've wended my longish way
Through the moist, cool air to Liberty Lunch,
Hot coffee without heavy cream
(For I prefer to taste what I've been deprived),
Poured mostly into the mug, but a few drops splash
An archipelago on the vinyl table-top;
And meaty patty, juicy, medium-well,
The fries just the right amount too hot.
Why do I smile when the waitress wails,
"José, can you see?" to a bald head in a booth,
Instead of annoyed by this abbreviated aria
Which drags my distracted gaze from the page?
I grin, and think of how craft is served
By lowly laughter above lofty wit.
T. G. 2/25/2026
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