By: William C. Blome

Unlike your usual snowstorm,
this one came in through blazing sunshine,
a mosaic of dares and filaments
and scoffs too (if you cock your ears just right
and catch the drift of its foul-mouthed taunts,
a pernicious influence on the young).
That’s why when you push the curtain aside
and look out at the children in the square,
you see snowmen now with dicks of firewood
cocked upward at 30-degree-plus angles,
and goddamned if they don’t seem set to march
in unison toward your fluffy sex.
But have no fear, my naked and edgy love,
I’ve been involved in enough assaults myself
to know preparation when I see it—i.e.,
I privately sense some rape-in-the-making—,
and so I’m giving you my solemn pledge
I’ll turn the heat way up in here—
gonna make things toasty between these walls—
and guarantee that the lads in white and wood
will not re-cross your hearth unmelted.