Little Man, First Snow
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I'm driving down St. Paul in a slushy snow
in precarious February to fix my Mom's TV,
it being Oscar Night and she says it's dead;
near 23rd Street I see a flash on the sidewalk,
as a Dad immortalizes a snowsuited toddler
and Mom steadies her bobbling kid in the snow.
I think of the poem I wrote about Dad holding
me at Holt's Field on his bony knee, wonder
why I didn't share the poem with my
eighty-six-year-old Mom. I park in the snow-filled
lot by her high rise. It helps to turn the TV on!
I think of the power blackout between Dad and me.
Christopher T. George
A schizophrenic poem this perhaps, melding my two cities:
Liverpool where I grew up and Baltimore where I live now.
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