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.