January 13, 1982

January 13, 1982

Blizzard snow

dances down

in droves.

The girl putters                       about

outside, aimless,

studying the blanketed landscape

of sidewalks, trees, shrubbery, houses, power lines.

The remnants of ambition: a 1950’s storybook snowman

are abandoned, unrecognizable,

the figure quarter-finished.

Subsequent snow angels are strewn about

on slates, left unpunctured

by dive-bombing

twigs and footsteps.

Perhaps she’ll amble half a block down

to the flat white expanse of the schoolyard

where a mass production could take place.

Cold starts to burn

red on her cheeks.

Wet iciness seeps

into her cheap boots and jacket

that look

but aren’t waterproof.

The grayness is shading darker.

The promise of outside projects fade

to dreary malaise and tedium.

There is busy work homework to do.

Her neighbor waddles over

and breaks the silence:

An Air Florida crash.

The plane slid off

the 14^th Street Bridge,

right into the river.

But, some survived right? 

Only five

Couldn’t they just swim

to the bridge?

The water was freezing.

A man jumped in

to save people.

A stewardess survived.

Couldn’t the plane have landed on the bridge?

What about those seat cushions that turn into “flotation devices,” or the slide that comes down from the rows of seats with the red-lettered EXIT sign? Didn’t they just slide off and swim to shore?

Guilt for the indulgence

of boredom creeps in.

Snowman and angels fade away.

She turns around and heads inside,

unable to get the image out of her head

of people drowning, trapped in a sky

bus banging on the windows,

converted to stone.