Caught in a blizzard that year,
I watched the blanket enclose
As a hush fell over the land.
It kept floating in a free fall.
I tried to shake the freeze and flakes.
The park bench at Times Square
Made the grey frosted beard,
Buried in white, crystallize. Still…
The snow angel rested near,
Another sleeping beauty.
Old Man Winter’s breath
Did not rise to cloud the view
Of the high rises scraping the sky.
The powder puff flakes fell still
Down from the Heavens to Mother.
The Father in black visited the oil
Barrel where the old man’s friends
Warmed their hands, fingers poking
Through fingerless gloves. Panhandling
Pigeons waiting for their last supper
…the broken bread never came.
The city train still clattered,
Staked to the tracks like
The Old Man on the Bench.
No one here knew his name.