alone in skyscraper canyons
wait for the El, as snow layers.
I’m sub-zero frozen in two hats,
tartan scarf, fists snowballed
in sodden coat pockets. Santa jeers
from the brooch at my throat.
Frost diamond-locks my eyelashes,
the plexiglass shelter brazens its lie.
I want to fall at the fire burning
beside the signals on the platform.
I want to be home.
A switch is flicked, heat lamps flame
above our heads. My cheeks flare.
In a marshmallow breath-cloud,
a hot chocolate voice
melts the ice,
Visiting for the holidays honey?
I say yes but
not my idea
of grown-up fun an outdoor ice rink
beery-cheery workers xmas-released
in santa jumpers frosty beards
beneath tarted trees toy-town lights
weak sun on Rudolph noses
mittened we skate tight laced
he pitches low desire’s offbeat
svelte racy padded anorak he’s not
my usual but I fancy him so
let him take me
on to neon ice-slush
swirl twirl kick glide that beat
my heart hop-flips resistance melts
his hot leathered hand
my woolly waist yes my choice
take me grown up fun
not my idea
but I say yes
Copyright © Finola Scott 2017
Finola Scott likes writing and tickling her grandchildren. Her poems have appeared in Clear Poetry. The Lake, And Other Poems, Coast to Coast and many other places. A Slam-winning granny she read twice this year at the EIBF, as well as performing by candlelight in Rosslyn Chapel.