Unused to this cold, and unused to this swing of things.
A simple patchwork man, more breath and less reason.
A country that has thrown off its clothes and sanity, running cursed between the cars of a real capital.
Not like our capital, our soft and embarrassed low fixtures
Our double-chinned talkers and stricken lenders.
Unused to this cold, and now motionless in a rolled in winter,
And in the rolled up notes, the smell of over-indulgence sickening.
And comic faces popping from corners with their I TOLD YOU SO sneers,
And pride fizzling and snapping and sending generations to twist and turn
No comfort in this climate, an outpost ripe for invasions of vertical seasons or vagrant ideas.
A knuckle-rapped child whimpering in the corner with stolen belongings a spilled guide to his hiding place.
And confidence beaten back and arched, buckled like hawthorn,
And on the roads off the roads still leading between the grasses and bogs,
A frost settles and hardens
A skin of ice and dank cold.
A wet sullen carpet, savage and shamed and stained.
Restless again, turned to another tomorrow,
Out of sorts, a scattered age waiting to board
And drift to spread the word
Or collapse with the weight of beer in belly
Too much to feel
Too much to understand
Beyond the grasp of the little people
And yet boring holes in their pockets
Refreshing truths left behind
And packing bags for those corners
With new reputations to overcome,
roads to build, and no ticket home.
