Decorating Winter's
Grave
This parking lot on holidays
candy packed in ugly boxes,
cellophaned with mission wrap.
A man rode by on a junkyard bike
wobbling like old signatures.
A Santa hat atop his head,
not safety helmet's progress
would expect, insist.
He paced the chill
in cotton breaths
extended by his waning lungs.
Demeaning ice was tenderized
by neat surprise--
heated sweet rolls on a plate.
His white moustache
in Cream of Wheat.
Scratchy beard of pine cones
shaken from a tree.
His steerage weak and teetering.
Correcting arching apathy
with Christmas carols
tucked in cheeks.
Deep brown eyes of smooth pecans
slipping through slits
of bread dough fog--
decorating Winter's grave
like studded tires of ancient hymns.
