Telluride in Winter

by Jenny Williams

 The road to Telluride is a hand winding stealthily
along the calf of the Colorado Rockies.
The mountain spreads her legs and the town
is the narrow slit in between, fleshy and inviting.
It's a city where the locals walk pigs on leashes
but the New Sheridan Hotel stinks of poodles and faux fir.
The night is Double Black Diamond slopes against which
cigarettes are held pointedly aloft like red torches on New Years.
Let's steam the gondola from the inside, yes
and flaunt the frost with our sweet sweat.
A viscous liquid joins the river in small streams;
we call it melted snow.