Snowmen in Winter

In my father's street, houses are
strung with lights, holiday wreaths
like emerald necklaces around
the throat of harlots in mink coats.

Here aspens stretch arthritic
branches to the overcast. The local
radio blares a forecast of sun,
Chopin's last opus before his death.

Windows gleam tangerine behind
gossamer curtains, the porches lit
by star-shaped lanterns, front
doors closed tight against the cold.

Indoors a potted poinsettia warms
by the fire, scarlet leaves curling
from the heat. In a few minutes,
the lamb roast will be ready.

Left outside, like an old bicycle
or homeless drunkard, the snowman
smiles through lips of stone, its
head swiftly lopped by a passing wind.


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