a snowstorm starts minutes before we pull into the lot,
and we take shelter inside the warehouse.
"I'd like to get her a membership card on my account," I say,
and the girl behind the counter asks for your ID.
you hold your cashew clusters and frozen fruit
while she click-clacks on keys like an epileptic woodpecker.
"step behind this line," she says,
leading you to your marks,
two yellow footprints just in front of a camera.
you smile like the sun at me before directing and the flash goes nova
before she steps back to the computer.
"so you two live have the same address?"
having rehearsed this before,
we both nod without looking at each other,
and your fancy new card gets printed out.
we thank her and go on our way,
a throw rug of snow being tossed across the valley
and draping over your car.
we talk about the weather,
the way that this whole flurry came out of more-or-less nowhere,
carpeting a plush white over fresh blacktop,
wind pushing itself across newly settled terrain
and although we talk of patterns of traffic of temperature,
I keep thinking of your auxiliary toothbrush on my sink,
shooting straight up like a flare gun:
a sign that this is a place you've laid your head,
planting your flag in a yellow building with green shutters,
while a space heater kept your toes so warm
in a town so covered in cold.