Downhill Vs. Downtown: A Stranded Skier's Sorrow
By Lee Lawless
This morning, on downtown commute
a businessman had packed his boots.
Fancy ski-boots! Tied astride
a backpack as packed as our ride.
The subway, bursting at the seams,
was stuffed with snow-folks, melting steam.
But the businessman gazed past the fray,
quite clearly poised for getaway!
One could see him cancelling meetings
to flee and give some trails a beating!
Perhaps to ditch at lunch, could he
be chilled upstate by apres-ski?
Even yet, his eyes raised hopes
of trading skyscraped heights for slopes!
His look alone did so instill
the urge to trade one's work for thrill.
To tear off ties and business suits
and don those gleaming, scheming boots!
To hop off subway, trade for train
and spend the next three days in Maine!
The subway stalled at 42nd,
where buses bound for mountains beckoned!
I kept my sub-seat. 34th.
Penn Station! HOP A TRAIN BOUND NORTH!
I fought the urges. 23rd.
So fond: abscond without a word.
14th. (Cross town! Ski bus on First!)
The work can wait! Abate this thirst!
To rip the pow and shred the gnar!
To ride the lift or gondola car!
To dodge the trees, through breeze, to chance it!
To fuck up gravity, nay, romance it!
The speed! The freedom! Glory! Grace!
The sweet snow kissing all my face!
TO TRADE THE DRAG FOR THE INCLINED!
But I didn't.
Back to grind.