Midwest January

We are in the unlovely time of year
When there is only the sooty swabbing of skies
And grimy mounds of snow slump
Against the sandy salted streets
And old men murder their old wives
One smothers her in a sagging stained sofa
Another fills her with a twelve-gauge load
Of double-aught buckshot
And no one notices the shadowy trees
Trembling like Our Lady of Guadalupe
Coruscated in a pre-dawn frozen fog