On the occasion of Dostoyevsky wet snow,
I like to clean sidewalks
so mailman does not slip, get hurt.
When arthritis flares, hamstrings tighten,
I stop and picture our backyard in Summer.
Green grass, tomato plants in garden,
a large lilac bush which never blooms very long.
The Sun’s sting strikes the beautiful snow –
All this happens mostly because of existence,
and I still have 100′ of sidewalk to shovel.
lots to mysteriously think about.
Despair how heavy is wet snow?
I have happier life during Summer,
for after rent and electric bills paid,
there’s always stale bread pieces
which are taken outdoors, cut into crumbs,
tossed into a circular grass patch.
Soon birds arrive, in peace, I sit on porch steps.
Sparrows usually arrive first,
they descend Billy Hogan’s tall oak tree.
A madman, the grieving voices of birds
who do not fly south for Winter,
and I feel good to watch little ones feast.
I get angry when bully birds appear,
they chase sparrows away –
Why can I not have a miniature drone
which targets crows, a rare Starling?
Lots to think about, I look backward,
I do not understand
why doves and shark teeth are white.
Snow already covered partially clean sidewalk,
I wish I could liquify snow into Merlot wine.
In distance, a mailman struggles uphill,
she might carry a good newsletter for me.
Snow shovel blade bears my name, “Orloski property.”
Can I prosecute the Sun for not doing its job?
Wet snow falls in Missouri, FMC Lexington.
I wish I were there when Kathy Kelly,
prisoner # 04 971-045,
gave bread to a Whiteman Air Force official.
I wish I were there when Christ’s family gave
leftover bread to Nazarene birds.
Is that a drone above my wintry backyard?
Sun ray momentarily strikes the drone’s side,
a green emblem, “Peter Mum’s Soda Bread!”
In 90-days, Pennsylvania winter loses grip,
Kathy’s gift of bread, still fresh,
is under arrest inside a garbage can.
The Sun and shovel will be my friends,
and I have yet to see Afghan kids play in snow,
come home safe.
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