From out of doors I looked darkly at him
Through the thin frost, almost seeing stars,
That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
What kept his eyes from giving back my gaze
Was the last gasp of winter in his hand.
“Yo, bitch?” I inquired, “don’t you know it’s late March?
Ain’t you got a time share in Florida opening up about now?”
What kept him from remembering when it was
Was that I smacked him upside the head, seething with rage.
He stood with birds round him – at a loss.
“Winter is over, Old Man,” I reiterated. “It’s time for you to go.”
And having scared the feces out of him
In clomping in there, I scared it out of him once again
In clomping off; – and scared the outer night,
Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
But nothing so like me beating on his cold ass.
So late-arising, to the broken moon
I figured I’d better check just in case,
For his departure, for his snow was still upon my roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep.
He slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
One aged man – even Old Man Winter-- can’t keep me outa his house,
So I stole his damned Social Security check.
It’s thus I do it of a winter night in Spring.
Mean old fart had it comin’ to him.
(With apologies to, of course, Robert Frost.)