Mardi Gras
of winter’s
ghostly rooms,
robins spy
pyracanthas
along the street.
The berries are ripe:
drunken voices
erupt among the thorns.
I revel in the sight,
pour another glass of wine.
The second time
I look outside,
a hearse is waiting
at the curb.
To cheer him in his work,
I go downstairs
and greet the driver.
He answers with a curse,
then drives on, empty.
November 23, 2006
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