Poetry by Guinotte Wise

Hot Rod Nights, Ice House Days In the Fifties, Kansas City, summer, worked the ice houses from Waldo to downtown. Cold. Gloves and parka work that was. Boots. The big blocks came down a chute, you grabbed them with the tongs to slow them down. Ice floor. Slick. Some would get away. They'd hit the wall sparkling crash but you'd use those pieces for the smaller sacks of ice, run them in the crusher. Coke ice. Hours later, you'd emerge into the heat, the night, the languid energies and pos...