Polar Vortex Poem

Running back from Istanbul in the winter of 82.

I was told to fetch a reload that I didn’t want to do

The final consignment of a knitwear order,

From a factory up near the Russian border.

The time that frostbite nearly claimed my toes,

When with two hours to go and my filters froze.

So I lit little fires in anything made of tin,

Built a wall of snow to try and keep the heat in.

Kept them burning, both day and night,

Checking every hour to keep them alight.

Diesel fuel and some rag for a wick,

Then after three days, it did the trick.

And in all that time  before that thing would start,

All that stopped to help was a horse and cart.

A nice old couple who gave me some bread.

They offered a room, but I stayed instead,

Cold and tired and filthy dirty

On a north Romanian plain at minus 30.

Another trip full of trouble and strife,

Surely the coldest days of my life.

But wait, maybe, I spoke too soon,

I’m parked at the ‘J in Saskatoon.

And it’s colder than the North Pole!