You will find evicted children in the almost
December; their past has been pushed out
The front door. The rain is in-between
Freezing and melting. What better time
Is there for rummaging? The shoppers collide
Like people intoxicated, in slow motion
In the cause of thrift. Their fingers crash
Like winter thunder among wire hangers,
Unphased by cold or wet, or the world,
Weighted down with its losses. By chance
They will tease out treasures, try out
Their luck with an old fedora, or tug
At the tongues of dead men's shoes.
It's no cinch to beat melancholy, except
As you wonder at the whereabouts
Of a robin red-breast and his place
Of dignity on the bough, and his brisk,
Sweet whistling.
No comments:
Post a Comment