Ode to snow plow.
Dearest snow plow,
Will you ever know?
The way your rumble up the street,
Cuts a tantrum in two.
The morning pro-clothes argument (any clothes mind you)
Tossed in the air with a, “Wait a minute, did you hear that?”
And the echo of “SNOWPLOW!” trailing the hall,
As a blur of near-nakedness bolts for the bay window.
Mollified by your magic, I slip a sweater over his love-locked eyes,
“Momma – the snowplow is here! He’s here!”
I make haste for the stove and bring back a bowl of steaming oats,
And transfixed, he mimics the repetitive scraping of the street with the motion of spoon to mouth.
(This is the only food I will not have to spend 20-minutes convincing him to eat today.)
I offer him a cushion to lean back against,
And make a dash of my own for my coffee and news,
And for 10-blessed minutes I enjoy the silence of the house,
Aside from the echo of his “beeping” in song with your reverse drive.