SLAM!

Ice on the Wires

There was still power
over on Clark when we woke up
in our cold, dark apartment
the morning after Valentine's Day.
We could have made love
by candlelight again
but we trudged
through three- and four-foot drifts
to reach the corner, its lonely
stoplights, the blinking sign
at Alexander's, the breakfast special:
three pancakes, two eggs, choice
of meat, coffee, heated syrup.
We knew we needed to eat.
When I look back now, I see the energy
it took to keep us all going:
the few cars on the street, the work crews,
salt trucks, our neighbor in labor
with her firstborn that same morning,
the two of us in our heavy boots.
One waitress had made it to work.
Alexander did all the cooking himself.
This is the quiet commitment I respect.
It is what I long for now that life
has gotten easier on the surface.
I want the long, hard walk in the snow,
our hearts pumping, our faces stinging in the heat
when we opened the door.
He had red, pink, or white roses at all the tables.
He decorated our pancakes with strawberries
cut in half to resemble hearts.
We were his only customers.

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