"My bedroom window is always cracked open" by John C. Mannone, Frequent Contributor

My bedroom window is always cracked open

John C. Mannone

even on winter nights

when cold seizes night

like icicles piercing air

and thin window glass

bears all the rasp of wind,

its tongue slipping

between sill and frame,

            I am safe

from the stark, hardwood

floors that creak under

slipper-steps corralling

the dark. In my pajamas,

spindled legs curl

under cowhide covers

mottled like Hereford.

I can feel the weight

of hooves press me into

soft sheets, into prairie

mattress, into cowboy

dreams where stampede

of wind is only a tame

cool breeze and a wolf

with no bite.

Poet’s Notes: This is a reminiscence when I was a young boy living in Baltimore. Mother kept those heavy cowhide blankets matted full of cow hair bought in Argentina in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I could almost write about that trunk, decorated with black leather and studded like a saddle. Smell of cedar on the inside. I was always warm, but the room felt like an icebox on these winter mornings, and I was reticent to slip out from under those warm covers to the cold as hell air and wooden floor.