by P. Scott Cunningham
(Originally published in The International Literary Quarterly Issue #13, Spring 2011)
The snow in Buffalo blows
to and fro
burying cars along the avenue home.
one's inside to turn their radios on
silence plays silently to no one-
rows of sunken clouds
domes of metal, leather and snow.
I can't open the window
so the television's on-
news like a fog horn
an always-ringing phone
the fathers and husbands of Buffalo
emerging, at dawn, from their homes-
armed with brushes and shovels.
One by one
they scrape off the snow
the engines turn on
and I open the lid of my piano.