The Little Man
The little man with the tangled beard
sits
huddled
in an olive green jacket
dust and snow caught in the wrinkles
A stained sheet draped around cold shoulders
edges
shredded to
threads that shudder at the wind
when the cotton swells to form wings
His eyes are glass behind the smoke of his breath
I
blink
Mom yanks my arm
and I let the snow blind me.
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