Like penguins, dried stalks of wheat
Huddle together in the snow, refugees from cold and age.
Next year, strong seeds would push through
And inherit this field. It seems the raspy elders
Are discussing the inheritance – some Yalta Summit
Of their own. Fervently they whisper their secrets
Into one another’s faces. They do not tire of one another
The way we bemoan an hour long trainride to work.
Aside the frozen fields, angry cars move along in
The wake of their seething breath. Icicles
Hanging onto their bellies, grey snow over their eyes,
Some bedraggled miserable mongrel
Indifferent to the intensely secretive huddles
Squabbling over next year’s springtime. For them,
All they have to do is shed their winter tires,
And hum a tune with their clumsy anti-freeze engines.
That is all, there is no more fuss to be had except to
Grow old and useless.
Beneath the pale white sun, under
All that snow, the half-dead rasp about next year’s
Youths. What a yearly affair!
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