The Missile

That snowball that I saved,
proof of last winter’s bounty
sealed in a zip-lock bag,
stored against summer’s heat in the freezer,
between the lambchop and the frozen peas,
awaiting the hot bare neck
of an unsuspecting victim,
the perfect target for deployment,
ice crystals melting into rivulets of cold
running down sweaty back, moist cleavage,
over burning shoulders,
is gone,
melted,
less than a handful of dirty water
in a zip-lock bag,
the victim of power outages.