By J.J. Tindall
Black Ice Blues
Now: black ice lurks
Like a mugger, so time
To be aware
As a burglar.
Now: The whole wide world
Is booby-trapped,
“Frozen objects plummeting toward
The top of your skull
May be larger than they appear.”
Now: simple errands rife with risk,
Commutes devolving
Into carnage. “Dear God:
I’m just trying
To get to work!”
Now: you walk,
Scanning the ground for ice
And then a diamond-hard chunk
Breaks off an adjacent tree
Or soffit, splatting inches away.
Might hear a warning crackle first but
Might not. White bombs
Rain, crystal ordnance teem,
Some ice falling in sheets wide as a car.
Now: the sky, quite literally,
Is falling.
Nearly broke my ass slipping
On the back porch stairs taking
The garbage out to the alley
Due to a lazy choice of tread-less shoe
And black ice under the grey snow.
Glad it happened early
This year so I’ll be smarter,
Sharper, fucking meaner through the siege.
Now: the neighborhood, in
Contemporary parlance,
Is “weaponized;”
But black ice won’t break me,
It’ll be the making of me.
Every sense sharpened, every
Step measured, every breath
Deep. I’ll listen
For crackle
In my sleep.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on December 3, 2018