The Snowmobiler

There’s a new type of creature emerging on Earth.

I’ll describe him to you, whatever it’s worth.

 

He comes out of hiding in Winter, I’m told.

He rejoices in weather that is terribly cold.

He leaves a warm fireside, his wife, and his kids

Climbs onto a motor, a belt, and two skids.

 

His machine comes to life. He is ready to go.

But he can’t ‘cuz as yet, there is no sign of snow.

For the past thirteen days, he’s been wearing a suit

That is covered with zippers from its hood to his boot

And mittens and helmets and mask for his head.

“My God,” says his wife, “must you wear that to bed?”

 

Then it finally happened—the ground has turned white.

He’s on his machine and rears out of sight.

On the flat he’ll crouch down; on a corner he’ll lean.

And they tell me his blood is now pure gasoline.

Over hill, over dale, through marsh and ‘round trees,

Over rock pile and sandpit, yet down on his knees,

He looks like he’s praying as onward he flies.

Is it monster or man? All we see are his eyes.

 

He’ll go charging ahead when it’s 20 below,

Screaming into a blizzard of onrushing snow.

By what demon possessed is this new breed of man

Who finds joy in a snowstorm as no human can?

 

But what happens in summer when snows are not there?

Is he out on the porch in an old rocking chair?

No. He’s sitting inside the house for the whole world to see

Sitting on his snowmobile watching TV!

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