Today the wind is stealing newspapers.
Schoolboys short-cut through the Jewish Cemetery,
Trip into pre-dug graves of the still-living.
A diner faces the wasted winter streets.
Inside, low conversation from a TV set. Old goats
At the counter graze on eggs and hash. Swill coffee
In buckets, bleat “hun” at the waitress. February
Drips away. The season's music sings in grease
Stains on old coats, a smeared score,
Its notes dripping discordantly toward March.
Winter has stained the waitress' face, though in jeans
Her figure still turns heads. The old goats scratch
At beards and dream of young legs gamboling.
Outside, schoolboys clamber from empty, frozen graves.