Devin Gmyrek

Winter Ode

Shake the snow off the snowman

and what do you get? A parked car

discarded for parts, a magician’s last

disappearing act, what someone could mistake

for a small wooden instrument, like a lute.

If you get coal in your stocking,

your parents hate you. Just clearing

the first ten or so stages deserves reward,

material to bounce yourself off.

Once I bounced so high

I bonked my head on the ceiling

my brain dispersed the sky

but then I had to mosey onward

to the next provincial painting.

The spaces between what should be made

into art and art aren’t worth a warm milkshake.

I know a dreamer always disappoints,

but here’s a Byzantine figurine

that somersaults like a snowflake

if you wait long enough.

Clear the slate and start writing:

“I will not consort with the wayward

chords, nor will I console a soul,

sew my mouth shut

and seek a sound ventriloquist.”

Next you try ineffectually to wash

the fishy smell off your hands,

pull the blanket up to your chin,

and pretend to be fast asleep.