One old room – A Poem

wet white powder fells power

from here to there the old man says.

he should know- sixty-seven winters he’s seen,

snow blinds come in,

a last resort town in the northeast

trying to maintain heat with the fire

place but

that covers one room and the old man sleeps

one floor up and two rooms over

  he doesn’t know.

the wet white powder will fall again tonight

bowing tree limbs like geishas

until they prostrate

he won’t feel the cold sink through the house

and sheets

and flesh

too worn from years of coal baths

tonight he sleeps

and tomorrow he stays in bed.


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