when the bank would default on its loan, we dined on bowls of snow
and no,
it wasn’t cocaine, but, rather, the seasonal stuff,
which falls from the clouds

we’d send out the little ones to go scoop it up by the road
“mind the traffic,” we’d say, “and come back in before your fingers are cold.”

sulkily, they would gather their winter clothing
and, with a syrupy slowness,
lead each limb through the appropriate insulated sleeve
exaggerating the arduousness of the task
regarding us, from time to time, with contemptuous glares,
intimating a less than voluntary willingness to carry out the chore

bundled at last, they would face the door
and, with eyes sullen,
the eldest would push it open

the rest of us then would sit still waiting
round the table with faces silent and sad
our stomachs would churn and groan and yowl
launching into an empty, hungry chorus

when back they came
each carried a high dome of cold white water
and these they portioned out to us all
combining the excess into a large bowl at the center
for anyone who might want a second helping

they joined us at the table

we all leaned a bit forward in our seats
peering into our bowls with a restrained eagerness
submerging a cupped hand
to be withdrawn supporting a workable quantity
lifting the frozen crystals into our mouths
reducing the temperature of our oral cavities
crunching the stuff
until our tongues were numb
chilling the gums
until the ice resisted melting for a good while

summers were less difficult
what with all the insects about