TUNDRA

Here comes the
dream again.
Snails winding
their way through
snow.
Making little slime trails
(as snails will do).

You are sitting
a great distance away
in a school chair;
the hard, plastic, orange kind
with metal legs
and slats in the back
for breathing room.
You look warm
and ever so inviting
in your down coat.
In your lap,
you hold what appears to be
my heart,

but I could never
be sure it’s mine.
I’ve given it away
too frequently
and it’s probable
I never recovered it
the last time.

I can’t get to you
quickly enough.
I’m sure an idiot
in my bra and boxer shorts,
but lucky day,
I remembered my moon boots.
They prove cumbersome
in my attempt to trudge,
and this snow
is powder.
A skiers dream,
my worst nightmare.
My skin is turning
bright red,
as the snow pelts my face.
My hands are hot and tingly.
The snails cruise passed me,
leaving slime trails
(as snails will do)
and they whisper,
“You’ll never win!”

Your eyes are the color
of caramel latte,
but I can’t make out
your other features.
And DAMN these boots
and what I believe is
my cold-cold, used-up,
frozen heart.

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