All over this city
people alone in apartments
sleep in down parkas
down under all their blankets
hands in mittens between legs,
without power
wind sounds like whale songs.
The snow finds crannies
like dust storms in the Depression,
seeps between storm windows.
We can’t see the street.
All over this city
families must stay together.
They play monopoly by candlelight.
No one has a meeting.
They talk to each other,
hear of rescue on transistor radios--
the water substation iced--
teams struggle.
We cook soup with boy scout stoves,
drink snow,
burn all our candles.
In disaster shelters
unlucky people sleep under bright
institutional light; free
way travelers trying to get home,
where families sleep
four abreast and holding hands.
© Jane Piirto. All Rights Reserved.