Winter Pulp
The cadence of the wind striding
Resembles that of the restive exhaustion
Of the children wearing mittens
Beyond the Sun’s cold leash –
Or the chortling of the elders
As they read the newspapers
Subtly sitting on a suede chair
Relishing in the façade of the brazen
Winter, and every pulp of sodden glacier.
My hands are tremulous as the cold vapor
Of the bottle I am holding schemes
With the allure of the winter fate
Or winter serendipity and defeat me
With a foray that none can match
And that is – to render me wholly alone
With partial, fragmented hope that
Cannot be resuscitated and form a city
Of erratic allegories.
Yes, the winter pulp
I have been there – the winter’s pulp
Clothes me as if I am a sartorial man of erudition,
Poise and grace,
When I am just one of the pulps of winter –
Forgotten,
And disconsolate.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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