prose poetry
in conversation with winter
a prose poem by jacob berg
it snowed last night and the quiet streets went mute.
all that remains is the neighbour’s grumbling days, the television howling in a room i can’t reach, the croup of their loins shaking the walls through a foul smoke.
the landlord left a shovel in the shed so i tie the leather laces of my boots and trudge shin deep across the drive. shehecheyanu. i wear an ex’s suede coat, another’s wool mittens, another’s ashen toque, scrape the sidewalk clean.
i turn to catch the snow still falling, take it aside for a chat, explain that while my soul is not implicated in the work i’d prefer not to see my efforts erased.
it says it feels the same.
i go inside and watch the sidewalk disappear. i make the bed and crawl in.
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