Rain caresses the city, soft like a kitty,
after a single week of snow settled in.
Layer upon layer of sediment sifts through
citizen sentiments— on the icy evidence
of a once great craze being washed away—
like royal yellow juices of the holiday bird
flushing down a toilet or garbage disposal,
or eventually both.
Snow in Seattle is like its grunge music.
After it is gone,
all that is left are the heroin addicts
and the Condo From Hell, smiling down.

I walk the thawing sidewalks, scouting
the discarded data, dug up by shuffling feet:
     Cracked eggs.
     Busted rubbers.
     Ragged plastic from the kite that got away.
Everything needed to reinvent childhood;
Reminding me I was a mistake on Valentine’s day.

Everything gray in this world
seems to be a slur of words;
Black ink pulled from paper, pulverized to pulp,
and blurred by breathy obscenities
mumbled while driving to Grandmothers house
in the snow.

Everything gray in this world
longs for the crispness of a poem—
which will never be spoken
because I, the undersigned,
lack the freedom to be heard.
And so we, the people, get filled
neither by black night or white snow—
but by the drab slush of tire treads,
crystallizing our disappointment
up and down the gray avenue curb.

written on 11/27/2010 by: Matt Kane