A poem: one.

Speaking of Snow and Charity

There was snow everywhere. Mt. Everest?
Maybe. Could have been a solid mass
of clouds. There was earth between a crack.
I was trying to get to the top of
it, where ever it was. Not so much alone,
but I never saw a second person. There
had to be a second person, I wasn’t alone.
Salvation Army donation bins dotted
a line to the summit. One every 25 feet.
For a moment I have a golf club- ready
to test my drive on these markers. Back
to the summit and those bins. Vaguely
I consider sleeping in them. Shelters
from the savage cold, but, no, I’m sure
they are too dirty inside.
Wolves are a fear.
Snow so deep I’d never be able to run.
And what do I have for defense? My
1-wood is now a snake, and it is leaving
me here. Something erupts from the
bin on the ledge above me. A cat.
Then another cat. Then another cat.
The cats getting smaller as this
scarf-trick continues. They don’t say
a thing. Not even Hello. They just
join the cat progression and head to the
top. There must be a lot of them up there.
Too many for me to make it. I jump
from the cliff and pull my ripchord.
In the morning, my own cat on my feet,
and I wish it was one of the smaller ones.