War Dances

Ode to Small-town Sweethearts

O, when you are driving through a blizzard

And your vision has been reduced—

Has been scissored—

Into two headlights and a noose,

How joyous to come upon the Wizard

Of Snowplows driving his glorious machine.

Now you will survive if you ride

In his slipstream.

He pushes back the fear and ice.

This is not a time for prayer, so you scream

With joy (Snowplow! Snowplow! Snowplow! Snowplow!)

As he leads you into the next

Snowed-in town.

You are not dead! You did not wreck!

And you know a family who live here — the Browns.

They run that little diner on Main Street.

It must be shut at this dark hour—

Quarter past three—

But the son, Mark, plays power

Forward for the high school, the Wolverines—

And once broke your nose with a stray elbow

While playing some tough-ass defense—

And you know him and call him friend.

So you park your car and trudge through the snow—

Cursing and/or blessing this fierce winter—

To find Mark and his dad awake

And cooking chicken-fried steaks

For a dozen other survivors and sinners.

“Dang,” Mark says. “Why are you out in this stuff?”

“For a girl,” you say. And Mark nods.

Mortals have always fought the gods

And braved epic storms for love and/or lust.

So don’t be afraid to speak honestly

About how you obeyed beauty’s call.

And though your triumph was small,

You can still sing of your teenage odyssey.