These Hazy Days

The Birds All Fled

Stepping stones

                 Thin, cold stars

                             Hidden in snow

            Your footsteps buried

And the birds all fled.

He insists it's 50 cents more.

                    I turn out my pockets.

                                This, I do not have.

                                               But you must.

                                                           I have not.

Turn my pockets back,
Hang my tie on the hook,
Admit I won't see you again.
Turn my fingers into violin strings,
Turn the umbrella inside out,
Admit the rain will freeze.

              And so it has

                     And so it is white out

                               And so the shadows deepen

December, newspaper
Burning in the fireplace.
Cuckoo clock flickers in red:
NO VACANCY.
I can't find my toolbox.
Damn that little wooden house.

Soon snow becomes rain.

                      Water runs downhill.

                                The piano player next door

                                               Dies on the first of March.

                                I never wanted to be alone.

                       Whatever I may have said,

Know this much is true.