by Charles Troob
After a heavy snowfall, I look out
At the cityscape, newly picturesque:
Leafless trees delicately traced in white
Like skeletons posing on a runway;
Streets and walkways, reupholstered, empty
Of traffic, savoring a brief pristine
Moment out of time, before the filth,
The ice, the slush, before the sand and the salt;
And then I think of myself, surrounded
By love and books and comfort, drowsily
Whiling away a quiet afternoon—
And my mind flashes on men shivering
Under flattened cartons and old blankets
Burning paper in oil drums to keep warm.
Shortly after I joined the IRP years ago I signed up for a poetry study group given by Sarah White. The first class was cancelled because of a snowstorm. Sarah had sent us sonnets to read and suggested we try to write one. I sat at my desk, thought “why not?” and looked out the window. I brought this poem to class the following week, and people had helpful suggestions to improve it.