December's Dying Men

Robert R. Woods

Her wicked tongue spits out my name
upon her lips a blistered lisp that
carves a memory in snowy white
along the fragile skin surrounding ear
and rosy cheeks… that pinkish nose
where mucus thick runs like a crippled ghost.

In shadows frosted by her kiss dark sparrows roam
from curb to curb, beaks seeking joyous nourishment
from garbage cans now left for dead by sanitary
working men, who in their grease-stained overalls
sing snappy Christmas tunes and whistle while they work.

Bare-naked elms reach for a sky grayish white
where heaven hides her thighs now pot marked by disgrace;
the lace that once adorned each angel in God’s holy stare
must drift with merriment away from those who found
some comfort there.

My wooly cap, my gloves of leather falsified, my hoody tight
around my head, the dread of winter’s bitter speech still ringing,
screaming worthy causes near the jolly Santa Clauses begging
dollars for the many homeless crows which dance on one foot
then the other, “Spare some change for your brother?”

Tonight I’ll drink my coffee black,
I’ll chat among myself then place
my sorrows on the shelf and sleep
the sleepless dream of dying men.—rrw 12-7-10

(This poem won the POTD award on Lisa Arnold's Echoes of The Soul Magazine, congrats, Robert)


Copyright © Robert R. Woods All Rights Reserved.

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