A cold wind’s night street,

a hardwood bench in a shivering park

Discarded and derelict from head to feet

None noticed except for the thief, rummaging nothing of value but a fright for his lark –

That the crumpled old man in ragged coat,

was not numb from cold nor in sleep born of wine

But dead to this world from a gash to his throat,

His face a smile of contorted peace – seemingly incongruous to the line


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