Brett A. Fernau
Boots and Bulb
It is January. I get up in the morning. I shovel snow from the driveway, shovel snow from the sidewalk. I take off my boots and drink a cup of coffee.
It is January. The neighbor’s Christmas tree, shorn of ornament, dead, needles scattered, lays on the curbing waiting for the City to pick it up and turn it into mulch. I take out the trash, take out the recycling. I drink coffee and think about the tropics.
It is January. Somewhere in the tropics a dark-haired woman in shorts is drinking something alcoholic from a coconut, thinking how hot it is, wishing she could see the snow, which in her imagination never requires shoveling, always falls on trees, always evenly on the ground, and she could wear a scarf and a knitted hat.
It is January. It will be January forever. Then it will be February forever. And I’ll shovel snow, remove my boots, drink coffee, and think about the tropics and a woman who doesn’t know snow.
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