Bats fly at night in moonlit steeples high
above the city street. A cello breathes
a dirge on mists of fog. A spade in dirt
creates a grave for one lone man asleep
from wine as red as blood just drained
from lambs out on the farm. The song cries soft
to mourn the loss of Benjamin McGee.
No doubt a lonely widower he was,
but helped the poor each Monday morn before
the snow began. It came like screaming ice
so fast her life had not a chance. He thought
he left her wood enough to make a blaze
that night. He found her blue with frozen tears
under her blackened eyes. He blamed himself
and was the death of Benjamin McGee.