The old TV, too heavy to Carry out of the basement, Still hums to itself. Faintly fading while the feet take flight Up the stairs, filing toward the Front door, Fingers finding buttons, zippers, Toboggans and toboggans, Flinging the storm door open With the hiss of hydraulics. For a brief, fleeting moment you can Hear it. Feel it, like cotton In an ear canal. The dampened, Muffled, softened stillness Shattered by the sound of sleds skidding over Sidewalk, swishing synthetics, Styrofoam footsteps, Hopeful speculation about the nearby "slopes" Whether the weather will satisfy, If the fall will stick around Or the skiers will sit, stuck Still, waiting.
About the Creator
M.L. Ross
The thoughts, stories, ideas, nonsense piling up in my mind have reached critical mass. Sometimes they're coherent enough to share directly, sometimes they have to filter through the Robit first.
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