Blizzard

The blowing snow gives body
to psychotic shapes the wind assumes,
going sixteen ways at once
in a night that’s hard to get across.
A New York City bus is stuck,
a snowplow too. The subway’s down.
Most everyone is still in bed,
but I put on an overcoat
and go outside to get to work.
On Broadway I’m alone and walk
eleven blocks in the middle lane
at 4:00 a.m., the only place
that’s clear enough. The snow is piled
some four feet high and drifting still
in a wind that’s only getting worse.
I carry a blackjack going out
so if there’s trouble I at least
won’t go to the hospital alone,
but in a blizzard before dawn
no criminals are on the street,
just me and a Nigerian,
Babafemo from Ibadan,
who drives a cab and stops for me
and maybe has a gun somewhere.
We both have promises to keep.