Before tucked away borage wild-weed
diverges to spring from beneath blankets
of snow late march would cover layers
of decomposed mush and cinder clumps
crushed inside adult footprints left paced
from shanty backdoors a short walk path to
twin outhouse bitumen roofed storage
sheds filled as silos of coal
or half filled plank hole covers to diarrhea pits
of waste; a child sits searching night vision
slit views through frosted gray wooden
panels looking for kitchen windows
decorated with frosted panes of separation
from pages of the Reader’s Digest of
serial short stories that tease and deceive
swill spirits that believe -so as winter
proclaims in the snow’s return to Christmas…
every Christmas eve;
wax covered table tops with holiday
candles light windows for amusement
back in the ghettos, barrios, and red neck
encampments by the railways and streams
cut deep into woods of woos
-Tough? No; Surprise? No; Of value? No;
the powers that be suffer none divine
forgiveness that culture outlive loss hope.