slush, slosh

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a sonnet – in the Italian (Petrarchan) style.

This snow is pretty… pretty gross. It’s slush.
The soaking city quickly learns to slosh,
And splash, and curse, and chuck stuff in the wash
As soon as they’ve survived the evening rush.
It seems like yesterday that life was lush!
Oh, wait, it was. Now winter’s here. Well… gosh.
So long, stiletto, sneaker. Hi, galosh.
And if you like this mess, why don’t you hush.

The upside is, there’s so much stuff to see,
Like art, and plays, and dining out as well…
Slosh through some slush and choose from anything!
But most of us stay in and watch TV—
And in this town, that means the NHL,
Which keeps on playing halfway into spring.

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