WARM

Do we still have to write poems
when it’s seventy-five
degrees outside?
Ain’t poems for the cold?
Ain’t they for blankets
and toddies?
Ain’t they for gray
and silence?

There are children
outside my window.
And I smell the jerk chicken
man down the block.
There is music.
The ice cream truck
will be here soon.
Ain’t that poem enough?