Ice Station Zebra

Black satin ribbons snap in the wind,
twisting around the defunct aerials
above houses slathered in frosted stucco
deep in the lush suburb of Drexel Hills.
Inside, the rooms are all cold crystal doorknobs,
glass ashtrays, veined marble coffee tables. 

Sliding in your socks across the salmon-stained
tundra of the linoleum, you long to escape
to the sweltering, root-ribbed patch of dust
of the backyard, to pluck the cicada husks
that cling by their thorns to the cyclone fence .
Listen: locusts. Air conditioners.
But no, you're stuck here in permanent winter, 

stealing slabs of rubbery provolone from the platter
of cold cuts on the counter, swigging skim milk
(not even 2%!) as the ancient ones snore 
in tandem with the television static,
adrift on an ice floe in their leather recliners,
warming their half-empty slippers before the
plastic logs that glow with a dull buzz
in the hollow of the fireplace which,
though made of real bricks, does not connect
to any chimney.