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┬áin accordance with Creative Commons

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