Late Burial

the small sound of an old radio, some music, words I
don't understand, a nostalgic howl with lots of brass
and acoustic guitar

The scene where the car is buried by snow, all the cars
are buried in snow, the road just a faint dent

the phone ringing, going to voice mail, the phone ringing
in someone's jacket pocket, the jacket buried in a pile
of jackets at a party

the rip along your cheek, badly sewn, a scar like a series
of faint pale staples, it was a motorcycle, you say,
or a drunk ex, you don't quite remember

the leather jacket hanging from a hook on a door,
the lining reeks armpit, vanilla perfume, sick cat,
ripped inside the pocket

the wind makes a small sound, rattles snow from beech
branches, the houses across the street suddenly veiled,
the man scraping with a shovel pauses and shakes off his hat