Sunday, January 18, 2009
Hobo Autumn hoisted his bindle,
hitchhiked out to another year, a warmer climate,
hoping to catch up with Spring
– then Winter arrived, demanding entrance,
banging at the door with cold fists as if he lives here,
doffing his hat to show where he keeps long nights--
when he opened his suitcase in the dank hallway,
darkness spilled onto the floor,
a few icy stars rolled across the rug.
He handed out freezing rain as if it were candy,
and from his frozen pockets he drew forth
a penny-whistle for the children,
upon which he blew a chill wind,.
We gave the old miser the extra room,
the one with the leaky window
where the draft comes in,
counting the days until he moves on.
Author: Jack Peachum