cinnamon french toast with vermont maple syrup

As the temperatures rise to over 100 degrees, I keep thinking about how bleak and never-ending a Vermont winter can feel. This poem is meant to capture the cozy cold experience of winter as a college student in Burlington, Vermont. As always, suggestions and comments are more than welcome.

cinnamon french toast with vermont maple syrup

there are grapefruits under their brioche skin
covered by fanned out wisps of buttermilk strands
dyed colors inappropriate for the season
not allowing the sunlight to filter through
wearing salt-stained suede booties
stomping on pbr cans and camel cartons
winding down the crumbling sidewalks
between church and main
clutching non-fat, lo-cal soy lattes
talking about the way they
fell into teacups and salad bowls
with honey lips and tea tree palms
the way that they lie to their mamas
claiming they’d been studying on a saturday night
not stumbling in leggings and cotton socks
up college street at two a.m. dreaming
deep-fried potato mornings with real vermont maple syrup
falling into sea-colored pea pods of lazy afternoon recovery
with he who likes the smell of your cinnamon hair

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