A Minnesotan
in New York

When I landed at LaGuardia

it was seventy degrees,

all I needed was a thin jacket.

For three days I walked the streets

leery of beggars who seemed

to know something, and shadowy

figures lurking in doorways.

But when the temperature began

to fall and the canyon gusts blew

plastic sacks like ghostly luggage,

I came into my own.

I am more used to winter than them,

it is my natural element, walking into

the city wind, swinging

my computer case at my side.

All along Sixth Avenue the muggers

and murderers part, melted

from their purpose by sled dog eyes,

urgent and cheerful on a cold,

cold night.