Car alarms, the fire hydrants, police sirens
take the air from Main Street. Doors
get pounded in the hallway. The screams
cannot cease. The arm is punctual
against these white doors. A building
constructed in the 50s. Those that strike
the air does not shake you anymore.
You don’t need an alarm clock in the morning
you wake at eight a.m. There’s no escape
from dawn that continues its own breaking.
Where do all the cars go in the storm?
Move them out of the parking lot at noon
so the landlord can plow the tight lot. The city
full of paralleled parked cars. The cars parked
on snow banks praying the MPA doesn’t see
the centimeter bumper that protrudes in the alleyway.
The cars become without home, some in garages
as snow gets blown off apartment tops. Blown
snow returns to the road, slinks into slick
spots you cannot see usually under a bridge.
Spin into the medium.
Midwest winters that blend into the Spring
never arrive. You sit, wait, how patient you are
for stagnation to sludge you through this stopped
time. You cannot plow your way through this;
the heavy time wants to glue your feet to cement.
Lisa Krawczyk (they/them) is a queer, neurodivergent poet currently based in the Midwest. Their poetry can be found or forthcoming in One Art, The West Review, Defunkt Magazine, The Wisconsin Historical Society Press, and elsewhere.