City Winters

There is a certain chill the city knows
And not the country: when the pavement aches
With emptiness, and even puddle-lakes
Across the drains are frozen; when the snows
Have passed beneath the plow and black ice glows
Obscenely in the streetlights; when the quakes
Of passing trains or buses throw their wakes
In crackling ice; when every streetscape flows
Into a wind tunnel of freezing air
Swept forward, ever forward by the height
Of every building; when the winter's night
Leaves dead raccoons without a living heir.
Those nights are lovely times to be outside
Because the muggers also choose to hide.