Drinking in the gray limbs of the city
where the smokestacks puff like cigarettes in the wind
and the flame is always burning at the steel mill,
Heat drifting softly up against the hard chill-
we’re all just dreaming of the summer,
of swing-sets flung behind when we were younger,
the grass prickling away at our toes,
how lightning bugs set everything aglow, but-
The sun glints cold off the snowy highway,
the Cleveland bustle hums along the byways,
the towers haunt the skyline in the frost-storm,
In what thoughts we find, everything was warm.
Now we’re getting lost thinking about the old days,
thinking what we’d lose to walk the old ways, thinking
remembrance is the strangest sort of fear,
but anywhere is better than here.