The Gonzo Wolf

It’s too cold for porch-swing poetry, but I gawked at the frigid structure while I wrote this.

Potato, potatoe, patootie.

Comfort wouldn’t be so far fetched if I’d raid long pants and closed-toe shoes from the closet.

Some drill sergeant convinced me in 1997 that it wasn’t cold, and I haven’t been cold since.

He was quite convincing.

It was cold.

I knew for a fact it was cold.

No, it wasn’t.

Magic.

This isn’t a poem, by any means.

It could be if I said it was, but it’s not.

It’s just words. My words. To make you think.

You know who you are, or you didn’t, and now you do. That’s how it works.

I have that effect on people, or at least I did.

Old lives ran deep today; the Cardinal in my window reminded me.

He or she, I don’t know birds, is gorgeous. Even when I run out of food, it checks daily, and has even pecked my window before to get my attention.

Whenever I see this bird, I think of home.

Honeysuckle and summer fields.

Did I know you?

Do you know me?

Trippy story idea, one way or another.

Maybe.

If I ever write more.

A metal song about a bird would kick ass, too.

Where was I?

Oh yeah; cold outside.

I bitched and moaned for a week about missing winter, and winter arrived.

See? I have magic, still.

I don’t want to feel it; I just want to look at it.

I want to smell fireplaces.

I want to gaze upon children playing hockey on frozen family ponds; more emphasis on the hockey requirement than the children.

You have to clarify your intentions nowadays, otherwise you’re on the list.

Theme park snow globe fantasies under nuclear threat