Tone's Inc. Headquarters
        Des Moines, Iowa

This is to inform you that it was snowing;
   as our city saw, a storm that did not end for weeks.
            This was not the beginning of things.
            It has been a winter of frail women
            slipping on the way to the mailbox
            and never knowing warmth again.

In our warehouse there was a problem:
   Piles of substandard spices grew into hills,
            mountains, and, as many of you
            certainly learned, landfills
            everywhere filled with snow.
            We wondered what we should do.

Black cliffs of pepper, wide garlic salt peaks.
   Our boot soles stained deep red from cinnamon.
            We trailed thyme down the halls.
            As you no doubt observed, rules
            were broken daily--you disobeyed
            yourselves. It was that cold.

Though our Waste Dispersal Supervisor, Patty,
   tried very hard to work, she could not even name
            two girls in the wedding party
            photo collage atop her desk.
            (Those of you who fail to attend
            company picnics might understand.)

One noon, Patty went out to lunch with tall Phil.
   In his warm car, recalling the bridesmaids dresses--
            peach silk--and, finally, their names,
            she heard the radio warn: Stay home,
            abandon all icy highways, the city's
            sand and salt supplies are depleted!

The answer was simple, like holding Phil in the parking lot.
   Patty called Public Works. This was the beginning of things.
            All that night, trucks hauled away
            our garlic salt. That night, parsley
            dusted moonlight fell down green
            to melt dark sidewalks and streets.

(Some of you may gossip, watching when they exit
   the complex together, but their touching is not about sex--
            it is due to muddy snow puddles
            in the lobby, soft cafeteria apples,
            4 o'clock calls from the coast.)
            By dawn the roads were safe again

and whole neighborhoods smelled of remembered meals.
   A trip to the frozen backyard shed became your kitchen,
            redolent with the first holiday
            dinner after a father's death.
            You ate in dreams, walked places,
            stopped in the driveways of lost friends.

This is to inform you that our Mayor kissed Patty,
   gave her a brass key to the city, an inscribed plaque.
            She wanted to give Phil the key
            but knew she couldn't. Continents
            of paprika still require disposal.
            All suggestions shall be considered.