3.5-3.11: Porch

The Thick of bitter Winter
Grips me within inches
Of giving up this porch.
But Wisconsin gifted thicker coats
To get me through this torture.

I’m just waiting for Dad
To rescue me
From my hypothermic shock.
He’s never come before 
And failed again, though
Next time he will not.

For even the rainy and snowy mixture—
Which is a fixture of this state—
Could not manipulate the picture,
Or create a gaping fissure,
In what I want and what I crave:

Dad waiting on the doorstep
To take me to
From whence he came.

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