My Husband, the Poet

The First Sign of Spring

The short dark days of winter in Spokane
had been pulling at my pant legs
and sucking at my rubberized winter boots,

each day its own black hole suck
of frozen slush and muck,
when it's all you can do to get in the car

and drive to Safeway for a six-pack
and some baby food and bananas
and Pop Tarts for tomorrow morning,

when what should my wondering eyes behold
but a fat girl doing a cartwheel
in the Safeway parking lot,

her buns like bowls full of jelly
in gray sweat pants, her tummy flesh
flashing out from under layers of winter clothes.