Testament

Across the street, the partygoers carry on.
Even from behind the winter windows, their voices
rumble a pitch equal to the L.
All the forecasters predict snow, snow bricks
and volcanoes and bikes riding up the sides
of cars, buildings, trees. Destined: the blowing, like air escaping
flat tires. The acrid taste of city snow outside their party,
outside my apartment. Yet, it’s the flat above the fête
that beats winter’s pulse. A single portrait, black and white,
left behind during the last snowstorm, during the final fight
the young couple swore they’d never lose.