Outside Baltimore

Waking to the grey sunshineless light that
           falls over my bed covers
I rise and go to my window with its
           suburban snow view
The perfect white on the parking lot, like my
           own typing paper, and then the cars
           come to write their poetry
I dress like the day, grey and black with
           hard boots, so as to stomp
           the people down
I go outside where the air covers me in
           softness that I am unable to
           reach through
The smell of snow long gone from the air and
           the snow on the ground turned into
           slush, like the slush that fills the sky
I long to be two months and ten miles
           forward, sitting at the Inner Harbor
           in the spring sun