Late December an Old Man Walks to the Bar

Late December an Old Man Walks to the Bar

it is hard to believe in spring in December with snow falling

all day and collecting against building, trees, and old fences

debts of autumn are hidden: debris of unraked leaves, paper, even

the dog’s house are buried beneath the bitter beauty of snow

it is a time to be lonely, walking to the bar, bundled in layers

of flannel and down with beard, mustache, eyebrows frozen

behind, footprints disappear, ahead, no hint of the future

disturbed by these thoughts a raven shakes snow down

at home the quilt lies folded neatly at the foot of the bed

the flowers have withered and coffee cools in the cup