A Sunday In Winter
The skies kiss without haste,
but with the abandon
of the Most Beautiful Woman in Town.
Street lights fall upon the flurry,
with the diction
of a Dylanesque degenerate.
Radicals fall from inside the sky
with a stamp that says they’d came from Eden.
Kids walk up and down in the black
that they’ve worn since their renaissance.
Their faces are red with the blood
from their bodies.
Their cigarette’s smoke is contrasted nicely
with the nightcave streets, where you can hide
more easily, in the dark.
The red is contrasted nicely
with the cream on ice
from the sky.
Down the street there is a wedding
canopy that is being weighed on
with virgin snow. It will brake
before morning,
and not look so pure anymore.
Houses are cold
and the home on the hill
is warm hearted.
Feet are turned blue and lips are shrunk, chapped.
Women’s legs turn dry and without purpose.
Noses are red and they are blew.
Vaseline sells and so does penicillin
and lube.
People make love to stay warm near the fire.
They’ve walked through badly,
while others are dying outside with warmer feet than they without a swagger,
but of lovelessness and cynicism that meant more than a life.