Razor-like pouts of cold

leave his face swollen and red. 

Its devil-fingers find him 

as he searches for a bed.

There are holes in his flannel shirt.

His jeans are naught but rags.

The only things to pass his lips 

come in worn-out paper bags. 

The wind is a calliope of 

dark and bitter dust 

that pulls on knees,

grown too old to trust.

Every doorway invites him to 

hide from the slivery wind.

But Old Father knows,

to survive you have to learn to bend.

Old father grizzled and worn,

caked with a decade of decay,

won’t someone remember him

when they kneel and pray?