Midnight the phone rings
it is snowing eight inches
expected across the county
coffee ready and the truck
idling in the drive
coughs out exhaust in a cloud
building from the tailpipe
like cigarette smoke deep
from the lungs like breath finally

in this cold family still
sleeping in the quilted dark
house a number in the headlights
shrinking down the drive
thick blunt cones filling
and unfilling as the big flakes
fall and stick already
the road buried and blurred beyond
the windshield great

snowplows rumble out of the state
garage orange emergency
rooflights flashing
in pairs dispatched down
and down the county roads
Black Horse Pike and White Horse Pike
names of the old
teamster routes from Philadelphia
to the sea the same

sea familiar now as snow heaved
aside now as salt and sand
sprayed from back of the snowplows
familiar as steam
rising from the thermos pre-dawn
gray of another year
spreading overhead all the hours
accrue like snow
in the shoulder of the road