I can alternate my wardrobe of knitted wool hats.
Handsome wool scarves are pearls for men.
In New York, far more than crime or the economy or education, winter is the test of a Mayor. How quickly have the streets been plowed? Which neighborhoods have been ignored, due to vengeful agendas? Why can’t that layer of packed, implacable ice be dealt with? Has the sidewalk in front of Grace Mansion been cleared?
The only thing which causes neighbors to speak to each other in elevators: the cold.
My partner John has a particular hatred for certain local TV weathermen. John grows especially gleeful when these weatherpeople are wrong. John believes in a website called the Weather Underground, which he swears is far more accurate. For some reason, I associate the Weather Underground with that Silk Road bitcoin-based, drug trafficking site, whose founder was recently convicted of masterminding a criminal empire.
When the temperature remains above 20 degrees, this now feels balmy.
Ugly footwear is not only allowed, but essential.
I stare at especially grimy corners sprouting especially forlorn trees, and try to picture that corner in springtime. This is how especially terrible poems get written.