A pea coat does little to keep me warm,
Walking under the bleakness of cloudy skies.
Monochrome is stabbed by the firelight of streetlamps,
And the spider legs of barren trees shake themselves free of cold,
Using the web of electric lines to climb,
Into the desolate promise that more winter is soon to come.
He talks of beauty, longing, and forgiving.
Of clear night skies bowing to the glow of a full moon,
And distant tree tops on the edge of sharp architectural lines.

Someone I barely knew told me there was a place in heaven for everyone,
That even poets who can’t write are still poets,
And business men who forgot their families are still fathers.