Poetry by Christian Calderon
This is the sign of winter. It falls from the sky, this over-sized unwritten crystalline white page. Branches with arthritis hold coconut ice-cream. Racine city has been whited out. The traffic signals are eaten out too, except for one. It shows its shy T. The S, O, and P are drowned. It is too late. I offer a minute of silence, but the neighbor’s mechanical animal doesn’t believe in solemnities. It makes a furious tron-tron sound as it sucks and spits sandy white matter. It tells me, “Shut up! I work on behalf of biped beings. They need to walk.”
Christian Calderón is a misplaced man.
