Shake the snow off the snowman
and what do you get? A parked car
discarded for parts, a magician’s last
disappearing act, what someone could mistake
for a small wooden instrument, like a lute.
If you get coal in your stocking,
your parents hate you. Just clearing
the first ten or so stages deserves reward,
material to bounce yourself off.
Once I bounced so high
I bonked my head on the ceiling
my brain dispersed the sky
but then I had to mosey onward
to the next provincial painting.
The spaces between what should be made
into art and art aren’t worth a warm milkshake.
I know a dreamer always disappoints,
but here’s a Byzantine figurine
that somersaults like a snowflake
if you wait long enough.
Clear the slate and start writing:
“I will not consort with the wayward
chords, nor will I console a soul,
sew my mouth shut
and seek a sound ventriloquist.”
Next you try ineffectually to wash
the fishy smell off your hands,
pull the blanket up to your chin,
and pretend to be fast asleep.