Two years ago my friend Alison in Palm Beach found this poem. Her trees were dying from the cold.
” WINTER ” by Abigail Elizabeth McIntyre
Shit It’s Cold
The End
That was one of coldest weeks in American weather history.
Even Florida had snow.
Winters weren’t always that way and maybe next year will be normal, but in April 1971 I escaped the cold in Boston by driving to Florida with Mark, John, and Tommy. It was spring break. We had rented a house in Fort Lauderdale across from the infamous Elbow Room.
The Sunshine State’s drinking age was 18.
The four of us were legal.
We crossed the state line around 9pm. WBZ was on the radio. The Boston station was broadcasting the NHL play-offs. Bruins-Canadians. We were leading ‘les Habitants’ by 2 goals in the 3rd period. The station’s 50,000 kilowatt signal gave out at the ‘free OJ’ welcome stand. We reached Fort Lauderdale at dawn. We swam in the Gulf Stream at sunrise.
At Wolfies we ordered breakfast and I read the morning newspaper. The Bruins has lost 7-5. None of my friends cared about the loss.
We were used to losing to les Habs and the girls on the beach were wearing bikinis.
I have my own short poem on cold season.
“Fuck winter.”
Foto by Alison R