Jeff CALHOUN

INVENTING THE SNOWSHOVEL

A drunk man said it was a sure fortune
before he passed out.  You never touched
the white powder: it never snows in Texas
where you learned to make oil angels
and drown your brain with Friday football.
But you heard a priest complain about snow
in the vestibule when you were high
and needed forgiveness.  No one will remember
you died with each hand grasping
the breasts of a supermodel, but in Milwaukee,
a girl will say a prayer for your soul
as she shovels on a snow day, her father
hung-over in the great room, yelling
for her to bring a cold compress and chicken soup.