Friday, February 6, 2015

brown-sugar snow

The smell of smoking meat,
roasting on the halal cart swirls with the
exhaust from the stalling food truck;
rich, bloody spices, and gasoline,
rush into my nostrils, burning them with warmth.
The acrid smell of burning,
roasting, singeing
stings the inside of my nose;
and hits my face
with all the force of a
jagged slice of ice sliding off a roof,
and falling--with the force of an Empire-State-launched-penny--
onto the harsh sidewalk, whose pores are rigid
with frozen water, cracking the concrete,
forming soupy craters of slush,
and basins of putrid drizzle.
The falling ice lands with a soft plosion,
in the marsh of melting snow and dirty
salt.
Unlike the sweet serenity of the Park,
the city streets are marinated in a salty slime,
the odor of fresh snow drowned out
by the earthy scents of
sizzling fat, and cars' exhaust,
and body odor underneath down parkas.

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