by Jonathan Hartt
Even the weather turned a cold
shoulder: sheepish pines hung low,
corn trees and bean line too—
the old gardener watched from his
armchair.
My Russian friend, that smallish man
with a black fur cap
folded up like a box, scraped his
windshield
with my car-broom. We worked in
silence, snow falling around us,
flaking the windows over, neither of us
quite able
to dig out. Then he spoke. Snow, it… and his English failed.
I nodded: Is good, yes, except when you’re late. He laughed. We both laughed
like neighbors, and kept brushing. Today the apartment went unvaccuumed.