this
the olde cold
of sooty grey London
here too

in

the still young
rising timber smoke
of New Amsterdam

where

shadow and shade
grin in wicked macabre
October delight

cold

as sky
slouched from river east

where

big hearted bright
not close enough hearth
and Hudson to the near west

cold still

enough to wet sweater
dam and damp
chill skin thin
in shiver silent shake
cool of bone
deep and within

II.

proper pints poured and spilled glisten
atop this oblong box

a toast–is echo

where there are many

and you
young wild curled haired boy

Thomas

never doubting

poor lad
they bent not to genuflect
not to tie the laces of their shoes
should they be so fortunate
not to strap their boots better still
if they were blessed with work

no
young darling boy
this beautiful Thomas

they crouched in unison to
the foot rail
ready and waiting and worn

your bearers
to carry you.

III.

some find it odd and some disturbing
that I weep here

I find it sad
the familiar melancholy
of Autumn
stained again
in colours up bright
punching the sky
before dizzy daze

pause

and drifting

I do so alone

I find it so very sad
and that they