Snow Day

i make coffee

under a gunmetal

american morning

after a night wind

aged fall trees

skeletal.

i take a sip

and start to pack

children’s lunches.

i check the weather

—chance of snow—

grab hats and gloves,

and place them

by the door.

i press my hand

against cold glass,

scan the news

for mass shootings

orchestrated against

pedestrians, churches, schools

by people who look

like me

and finding none

declare

a snow day.