Glass Poetry Press

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.