Quinn tastes like diesel in Queens,
the worst SnoCone flavor.
Quick-slow-slow-quick-slow-slow
we tread through slippery slush
and I wonder how many kids came upon it with their feet,
the marks were still fresh upon the grey mush.
Wind howled with the oncoming traffic,
umbrellas died in the great guffs,
Quinn’s snow covered us without remorse,
her flakes were wet and fat.
By 7th Ave. my coat was still soaked.
Why were the other coats still bone-dry?
If I still worked in Manhattan,
it would have been manageable;
Quinn’s flakes are fine & sedate
in Columbus Circle.