The sun has seared the slopes to slush
best forded less with skis than fins.
We tumble down like bowling pins—
the Centre reaps the morning rush.

Napoleons in plastic boots
the brittle-boned brigade salutes
with crooked thumbs and flapping wrists.
The quacks and crags are in cahoots

no doubt, a sly conspiracy:
The waiting room's a trifle bare,
says Nurse. White Mountain counts to three,
then as a hound shakes off a flea

sends skiers flailing through the breeze
to land in grimly groaning heaps.
We tumble down like rotting trees—
the mountains sow, the Centre reaps.

 
NaPoWriMo 2005, April 6