coffee and snow

Coffee and snow.
Men driving cars, men waiting in cars.
Styrofoam coffee cups and wet winter gloves.
Unshaved faces, watery eyes.
An old sportscaster on the radio
Reminds you of your father. What was that
Pitcher’s name from Cherryfield?
Men waiting in parking lots for wives to
Come out of shops. Snow and
Ice scrapers. Pickups with plows. All these
Lonely men, retired, laid off, getting out of the house,
Away from the old lady, rumbling around town
Playing Bob the Builder. Running errands,
Hardware store parts. The teenagers in black
Shuffling their way to the skatepark.
And you, waiting for opening day, parked
On a sidestreet in the snow, drinking
Cold coffee, yawning.
Through the trees, the New England wild landscapes.
Indians lived here once, surviving in winter caves and
Force-marching their prisoners through narrow
Mountain passes, swimming naked in lakes, wet deerhide.
No roads, no buildings. What did they do then?
With no snowplows to clear their driveways, no jobs, no coffee.