Old Hat

I suppose all the snow

Is old hat to somebody?

The piling up, shoveling against futility,

Fogged up glasses?

When I was little,

Being the original snot-nosed-kid,

I almost got used to it freezing on my lip.

I guess we can get used to anything,

All the shit piling up,

Being shoveled into are living rooms

By the talking heads

Blaming or excusing one party or another,

Or the numerable foreign devils at their disposal,

All the pocketed politicians

Spewing targeted sound bites across the land.

I suppose we’re used to it,

The powers that be playing chess

With us as the pawns,

But you’d think,

With all that endless supply of hot air,

It would at least have some effect

On the snow?