Whining, he said, "I ain't did anythin',
I don't know nothin' about no car,"
Even as he was taken from inside it.
Then they collected the three fifty-seven
As they put the driver into some cuffs
With the perp all the while saying
"It's not my car,  it's my cousin's, not mine,"
But he couldn't provide a name
And he was quickly taken away
To wherever it is that cops take people
Who can't seem to remember much of anything.

The passing car lights brightly rainbow
Off the frozen, twinkling snow,
Soft powder turn to luminous ice
By the far sub zero winter air.

We will need to move it early Sunday
Before the sun can change it
To an ugly slush resisting our shovels
That turns rock hard next nightfall.

My dangerous, irresponsible youth
Was spent in malconceived flesh
Lacking the rudimentary accoutrements
Necessary for my existence.

Alas, the alternatives, such as they were,
Were beyond my limited resources,
Even if I could identify and find the ones
Who would help me be all I can be.

Then there was the matter of my parents,
My grandparents, my aunts and uncles,
The Holy Roman Catholic Church and my brother,
Not to mention the doctor who knew me from birth.

I was not nearly the bravest young thing
And, when confronted with a problem
I could not quickly resolve to my satisfaction,
I would retreat into my rather rigorous self.

I wish I were able to transverse time
To tell the young girl in Sacramento
That everything would work out in the end,
Eventually, slowly, after much gnashing of her teeth.

She would survive and even prosper,
Raise three kids, be married twice, and,
At sixty, be finally truly happy, but the wait
Must seem interminable when I was twelve.

The last surviving daughter of Emiliano Zapata
Died last month in Morelos, Mexico,
A small footnote in an obit column,
The last living link, two ages past,
To La Revolución mexicana,
The child of a legendary hero
Who led his peasant army
Against the government and the landowners.

She chose to work within
As a lawmaker and a mother,
Her life recounted in a few hundred words
On the back pages and the internet

Snow, starting out light,
Continuing throughout the night,
The second January storm
Of six inches or more;
The last one has barely melted
And now here we go again,
All these cute little white flakes
Of motherfrakkin' snow,
Just another northern nightmare
In our efficient southern Capital:
We'll probably blame it on the President,
Everything else seems to be his fault,
Except, of course, for all those things
He wishes to take credit for.

Although the snow was light, powdery fluff,
My back is still tired after doing
The driveway and the walk
As I sit here drinking diet soda,
Watching a bio of Roy Chapman Andrews
On the Smithsonian.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow I will know
The true nature of the damage to my arms
And my legs and all those muscles in my back.
I suspect I will be able to get out of my bed
But after that, I wouldn't bet a Liberty Dollar
Until I stood in a hot shower for a half hour or more.

Getting older is getting older
And there is little we can do to delay
What we know must be, what is decreed
By our genetics, the passing of years
And all the nonsense we inflicted upon ourselves
When we were young and indestructable.

Full moon peeking above low clouds,
Sun rising clear in the east,
Rain to the west, a thousand miles away,
Moving to the coast by midweek.

The cusp of spring between snow or rain,
No longer winter but indeterminate;
Robins are searching for the first defrosted worm
While squirrels check their battleplans for nuts.

Spring is afoot but gingerly,
Lions still lurk in the darkness,
Dog and human venture forth religiously,
Praying the storm gods are appeased.

Below the Metro the snow covered streets
Discourage the cars still in their driveways;
The sidewalks are fifty-fifty, proceed at your risk,
The school buses are running some two hours late
Or not at all if the kids are really lucky.

Inside the Metro Trains, the rustle of today's newspapers
Betrays the otherwise silent riders who find themselves
Grateful for the heat and the snow-free commute
But wondering what awaits them at their destination.

Chemicals scattered across the icy spots,
Sunlight bright across the shaded eyes,
Buses dusty with ash and salt crystals,
Commuters relaxed and conversational.

Two days after a minor winter snowfall,
The roads are quite clean, most sidewalks, safe,
Everyone is smiling the worst has missed us,
Wondering about the "dusting" come tomorrow.

All of are aware it's already February first,
A handful of weeks until the ground is warm
And the snow have difficulty hanging around:
Spring is coming! Spring is coming! Spring is coming!

Just not soon enough.

Two policeman shot at the Pentagon Metro,
The Pentagon's own, service veterans all:
Some run of the mill crazy who is now quite dead.
The building is in lockdown, automatic weapons visible,
The snipers on the roof have night vision on;
No one leaves, no one enters until we're sure
No group exists or some wider conspiracy.
We know we are a target, an American symbol,
We accept the danger but seldom discuss it
Until someone tries to shoot one of us
Or run a jet airliner into our building:
The Pentagon Police would die for me
Before they would let our enemies get in.