"January" by Baron Wormser

“Cold as the moon,” he’d mutter

In the January of 5 A.M. and 15 below

As he tried to tease the old Chev into greeting

One more misanthropic morning.

It was an art (though he never

Used that curious word) as he thumped

The gas pedal and turned the key

So carefully while he held his breath

And waited for the sharp jounce

And roar of an engaged engine.

“Shoulda brought in the battery last night.”

“Shoulda got up around midnight

And turned it over once.”

It was always early rising as he’d worked

A lifetime “in every damn sort

Of damn factory.” Machines were

As natural to him as dogs and flowers.

A machine, as he put it, "was sensible.”

I was so stupid about valves and intakes

He thought I was some religious type.

How had I lived as long as I had

And remained so out of it?

And why had I moved of my own free will

To a place that prided itself

On the blunt misery of January?

“No way to live,” he’d say as he poked

A finger into the frozen throat

Of an unwilling carburetor.

His breath hung in the air

Like a white balloon.

Later on the way to the town where

We worked while the heater

Wheezed fitfully and the windshield

Showed indifference to the defroster

He’d tum to me and say that

The two best things in this world

Were hot coffee and winter sunrises.

The icy road beckoned to no one,

Snow began to drift down sleepily,

The peace of servitude sighed and dreamed.

"January" by Baron Wormser from Mulroney and Others. © Sarabande Books, 2000.