Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,
That wide wet kisser we
Smacked on to justify a pipe.
Just as an afterthought, the stovepipe
Hat completes the nicely rustic
Clutter of our Philosophe.
So many patterns packed in that white brain
Of his: for no two snowflakes are alike,
Thought many snowmen are.
We like to think ours is unique,
It warms our hearts so to look at him
Reading yesterday’s newspaper—
Eyes smoldering like the little coals
They are…. nose a raisin, blue
As the plume of breath that freezes
Feathery on his face. Tomorrow,
He won’t remember us…
His veins will be full of ice-water.