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
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
too worn from years of coal baths
tonight he sleeps
and tomorrow he stays in bed.