Skiing Might Be Heaven, but Florida is Dante's Inferno

Making my getaway
to December
the end of the semester
where there is white
and ice.

To float on the powder
on the mountain
wings on fire
the archangel of snow.

Only clouds, shadows of trees,
Seraphim skiing from the summit,
Cherubim sliding slower
on the lower
hills.

We descend down
with the sun to
the bars to dance.

Condescending those
who came by accident
a stray lover brought
against his will,
or a child brought by her parents,
whose preferred climate
is flame and sand.

I have been to their place once.
There are rows of bacon strips
lined up on the beach
wrapped in a polyester
lycra blend.

With red skin,
they fry by day,
drink, party and copulate by night.

Even the crystalline
blue sea will dehydrate you
if you drink it,
like Maestro Adamo.