On the walk home,
Seattle’s first snow drools
from the Craftsman roofs.
Their shingles sag
from so many winters
spent crying.
Seattle air tastes
like silt and silicon,
like city tap water.
I miss Boston. It too, is a city,
but of more bricks than concrete.
Its wind stabs the throat like icicles,
sharp enough to cut tongues,
to cherry your hollowed lips,
entice you to keep drinking.
