A Winter Poem
Two men meet on the street corner by the park,
the day's light just beginning to decline into evening.
Their beards hang like icicles; the men are very old,
but still with sparkling eyes and smiles.
A few months ago they played chess in the park,
on the tables now covered with snow flakes,
surrounded by drifts and the eddies of the wind.
One is stooped and bent, the other stands yet straight,
though he too must bend as they embrace, the hug of brothers,
the brotherhood closer than what the rest of the world can ever know.
The city stops, the noise of traffic falls away to nothing.
One of the men has a Polish name, the other is Hungarian.
One has mementos of his wife,
found after her death in what used to be their house,
a thin gold necklace and a silver earring.
The other has nothing, because nothing survived.
It's been a cold winter, but not so cold as the one 73 years ago.
No winter could be as cold as when they lost their wives,
when they were made to work with spades in the hard ground,
when they got their first and only tattoos.
There used to be many more of them that came to the park.
Now, there are only these two.
Next year there will be only one.
December 4, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'A Winter Poem'
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
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