Yellow Book

Combating frozen snow banks
in cresting drifts
like desert sand
ripples in the wind

Running, or wading
caught between gusts
faces blushing dull red
in this February freeze

He smiled, handed me the yellow book
his foreign accent mispronouncing hello
Turned away yelling half-forgotten jokes
to coated countrymen powdered by snow

Four men
gloves of salted white
smiles of desert sand
hanging on the trudging truck, bearing yellow books

And I, resuming shoveling,
gazed on, my cheeks burning
hearing, smelling, feeling
the thick exhale and exhaust in their wake

Despite my warm-hearted instincts
I wondered at the legality
of this yellow book situation, me shoveling
as they drove round and round this suburban ice rink

Hanging on
the plastic blade
cutting through the snow
some of the ice, but never the wind

The fitful winter wind
not a whisper, a shout
a blast of frigid bombast
catching me full front in the face

Lower your eyes to the wind
amidst this tired shoveling
between walls of rippling snow banks
drifting, drifting, I believe they’re drifting

One swipe and on
retracing steps
I’ve grown tired of retracing these steps
along the littered winter road

Back and forth
the white lines against the black
where once they drove
where once they combated the cold

I finished my half-hearted attempt
at clean suburban dignity
leaned the shovel on the porch
lingering a moment in the snowy evening

And I thought of four Mexicans
—for in the American mind they are all Mexicans
hanging on the dirty truck
bearing a foreign smile.