Snow up to our waists and coming down still.
There was a field here once, when we began.
We marked the end zones and set up the goals.
Now nobody can even move, much less tackle.
I am Ganymede fleeing on a temple frieze.
We stand around like lovesick Neanderthals.
We’re Pompeian before Pompeii was hot.
We have the aspect of the classic dead
Or of stranded, shivering astronauts.
It was early in the era of the pause button:
We paused and paused the afternoons away
Indoors, blasting our ballistic erections
At the blurred bikinis of celebrities,
Then, splaying on the linoleum floor,
Awaited the apportioned pizza delivery.
Now, someone has paused us, or so it appears,
But they didn’t pause the snow, or the hour:
As the one gets higher, the other gets later.
|About this poem:|
"The VCR became a fixture in my friends' houses at precisely the moment in our lives we got extremely horny. The pause button allowed for sustained scrutiny of, say, Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High—but there was a cost: her image became grainy and indistinct. When you possess something, inevitably it loses its lustre. The snow falling is Frost, the idealized Vermont; the pizza and the linoleum are truer to the Vermont of my particular childhood."