White people leave the express
at 96th Street, collectively,
like pigeons from a live wire
or hope from the hearts of Harlem.
And I’m one of them, although
my lover sleeps two stops north between
Malcolm X and Adam Clayton Powell
Boulevards, wishing my ass
were cupped inside her knees and belly,
(poetry diary 120) –wanted to post a poem about snow, since it’s snowing 🙂 , thought this one about weather and inequalities was better for this time-period than one that was simply pretty….