Report from the Subtropics

For one thing, there’s no more snow

to watch from an evening window,

and no armfuls of logs to carry into the house

so cumbersome you have to touch the latch with an elbow,

and once inside, no iron stove waiting like an old woman

for her early dinner of wood.

No hexagrams of frost to study carefully

on the cold glass pages of the bathroom.

And there’s no black sweater to pull over my head

while I wait for the coffee to brew.

Instead, I walk around in children’s clothes—

shorts and a T-shirt with the name of a band

lettered on the front, announcing me to nobody.

The sun never fails to arrive early

and refuses to leave the party

even after I go from room to room,

turning out all the lights, and making a face.

And the birds with those long white necks?

All they do is swivel their heads

to look at me as I walk past

as if they all knew my password

and the name of the city where I was born.