With slippers for snowboots I inched my way
across that flat and desolate wilderness
I pitched my tent on the Christmas ice shelf
Day after day, I trudged wearily
through blizzards of apostrophes
and the swirls of sugared almonds.
Wind moaned through the conservatory
playing a hymn in a minor key
that was well-suited to my melancholy.
The moon howled as I trudged on
at three, it was already midnight
scowling at an invisible horizon.
What would provide a requiem
for this doomed and lonely journey?
Perhaps some words scribbled hastily
on a post-it note for my family
the metronomic tick-tock of the kitchen clock
on the table, a half-finished crossword.
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