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.