Cold Town

I like the bright blue sky and the white sheets of snow.
I like the skeletons of summer trees forming
an entanglement of earthy lace, blurring
the houses' details of decay (chipping mortar, and oldening paint). I like the slow air and cold motion of smoke and steam.

This poem is not about the horrors of the Iraq war,
nor about the ignored lot of poor and sick,
nor about loyalty of our soldiers, nor freedom, nor
country nor flag; nor about the intoxication of our cities with pushers and killers, and our rivers with poison.
So sue me.