WARM

Do we still have to write poems

when it’s seventy-five

degrees outside?

Ain’t poems for the cold?

Ain’t they for blankets

and toddies?

Ain’t they for gray

and silence?

There are children

outside my window.

And I smell the jerk chicken

man down the block.

There is music.

The ice cream truck

will be here soon.

Ain’t that poem enough?