Snowmen
4 September 2015
Rationed voices croak: Not today, I’m saving that tin of something.
Every city, a constellation of sufferers,
As if some artist in the sky
Flicked a paint-soaked brush across the map marking each spot damned.
Down every alley and up and through every high rise
The sound of stomachs grumbling,
Rationed voices croak: Not today, I’m saving that tin of something.
Well, winter’s gonna be a cold one this year, or so they say
And pure white snowmen,
Shaped gleefully by mittened hands,
Dotted around house-fronts,
Will stare from dead-coal eyes into empty insides,
Passed dreamless trails of ketones.
Image “Snowman” courtesy of Javlr on Flickr in accordance with Creative Commons