Thursday, November 12, 2015


If once the Winter King had fur-lined robes.
Thick gloves, warm boots, they are long gone.
His clothes are rags and thin to transparency
When I was a boy I would see him sometimes
Joining the used up men who would gather
Around oil drum trash fires, flaring high
They’d shuffle aside and make space for him
As should not courtiers for their king?.

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