November

by Pat Darnell

I lost my wingtips in the snow
they came off in the deep sludge
next to concrete curbs i trudged
Seems it happened a very long, long time ago

not quite as long as an age
only as long as an epoch
just under a period possibly
about time of year when birds migrate

i didn't know much about snow
when i moved to live in Chicago
on a street once lined, you know,
with linden trees and honey bees

in November i hated most
icy rain that dribbled down my neck
because i never could remember
to wear my scarf nor my hat

strangely how most of the day
was lost in thawing cycles extreme
in and out of torrid hot and dry buildings
jammed up in filthy cubicles and things

In November, each Thanksgiving I'd think

... to ask the coming wraiths of winter

should I stay and die one more year
or should I leave this big stinker

that to the day, twenty years later
... and ten pairs of florsheims
ignoble frozen digits aching with bunions
time invested in salty slush and rinds
yes, i finally did leave behind,
... Chicago, the Big Onion ...