Between Blizzards

We backed up to the open bay, jumped
out of the cab, zipped our jackets
and took our places between two masses
of rock salt left over from the storm,
one in the truck, one in the shed.

Wordlessly and dutifully,
we emptied out the spreader, listened
to its engine shudder against the tailgate
then machine gun fire, a spattering
on the icy ground, drowning out
everything but our snuffled grunting.

You, peeking over your sleeve
at the little white bullets heaping
nearer to the tailgate, and me standing
on the grate with a spade, watching
as the load sank in on itself, cavities
spreading like gangrenous lesions.

Come morning, we would be there again
pillowed in fresh gear, our mittens dried out
and crusted, tar brewed coffee
stinking and steaming in the cab,
in front of the shed once more
waiting for another load.

Reviews

[MoriartyMesa]

Paint it Black in a White Hail Storm.

Loved it.