HANNIBAL
“It’ll be nice today,” he said.
It was December and I was hesitant.
I stepped outside to make sure.
Relieved, I left with that green flannel
that was so comfortable if I wore it
indoors with the windows open.
Snow fell all day long, the temperature
fell with it, I was confused—I didn’t
know that weather could do that.
Even Hannibal had sense not to winter
in the Alps. Frost clipped at my ears,
burned at the edges of my mouth.
I was angry that I’d be walking two
miles uphill in the snow. All the Aunt
Peggys and Uncle Mikes were right.
Gait shackled by frigid fingers stuffed
into corduroy pockets. It would be
back in the 50s before Friday.
Bio:
Pittsburgh-based poet Fred DeMeo, originally from Phoenix, has been writing since the 1990s. Recently returning to his craft with renewed focus, his work explores the emotional landscapes of Americana. DeMeo’s poetry delves into the complexities of men and women, while capturing the subtle nuances of generational differences through evocative verse.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 