Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Two       

Dan Nowak

Walking Through a Snow Storm is Like Waiting To Call Yourself
 
And I thought Nebraska couldn’t make me
any whiter, but I am a new snow angel.

Call me Michael, or Ishmael, or anything you want
until the second date. Then I am to be

your snow white knight with post-feminist, post-
humanist chivalry. Laptops are horrible lap dancers.

I pale in these winter lights, try to blend
in like Bob Ross. With no happy trees, friendly mountains,

or inanimate people to block the snow, how am I to stay
dry? Nebraska makes me hungry for crackers

and cannibalism is only a bad idea if you
are the only one left. I am still waiting on

my echoes from Denver. The Pony Express
feels slow when all the streets are yet to be plowed.