ICE STORM IN HARZARDVILLE
 

From my mother’s porch I watch the ice storm spill its load, traffic

shattering on the main road, trees curtsied by the build-up. A nun

from the convent across the way backs her Buick into the street,

but can’t control it. The car describes a large vague circle

and halts with nose on my mother’s lawn.

 

The nun smiles that precious nun smile and abandons the car, by waddling

toward the back door of the convent. Almost there, she slips backward,

smashing her head on the icy pavement. She lies so flat I should call

an ambulance; but she’s up again, grabs the rail, pulls herself indoors.

If she fractured her skull the sisters will pray it whole: no need to worry.

 

The Buick, pointed right at me, sheathes in ice. The nun left the keys,

so I back it across the street and into the driveway, then creep

back to the verandah to drink cup after cup of coffee

and listen to trees scrape and chafe.

 

The thermometer’s stuck at freezing, but a degree or two either way

would lighten the load to snow or rain. I wish the nuns were pagan enough

to pray to moderate the weather. But I remember them slapping

knuckles, slamming a smart-mouth kid’s face on his desk, again and again,

breaking his nose, chipping his teeth, so I won’t bother asking them

to reconsider their religion to account for current conditions.

 

Besides, I’m enjoying this mess, the coffee hot in my gullet,

and in the living room behind me Mother’s watching The Price is Right,

sorting the world into objects even the simplest fool might buy.