Snowballs

I’m tired
and have no poetry left;
so says Mary and me.
Meanwhile,
Mike and Chris tell me
it’s only a matter of time.
And Toby bleats
“ya gotta start somewhere.”
When I dropped the artistry,
I dropped the philosophy;
the fact is
I don’t even want to hear my own philosophy.
I’m ducking under snowballs
that occasionally shatter in the air
because it is too cold and dry
for them to be formed.
Every now and then
an expert bully packs one,
takes aim
and wallops me in the face.
One or two is annoying,
more than that brings enough pain
to make me think twice.
I think I’m armed with grenades;
but the box is marked “do not open until Christmas”
and I dare not look inside.