Good King

You match his stride
as best you can—
your arms outstretched
for balance,

leaping slightly
from one footprint
in deep, damp snow
to the next.

It’s always been
that we place these
lamps in the yard,
light the house.

Viewed from the street
by passers-by,
It’s lovely still,
the quaint scene—

wreath on the door
scant glimpse of tree
—artificial,
ornaments.

One lamp bracket
breaks as he stabs
at hardened ground.
He stops, sighs.

He is hurried,
gone at all this
distractedly—
mind elsewhere.

You’re there to help
you remind him.
It starts raining—
cold, heavy.

He sends you in
—this last work his
—to finish it
this last time.

from April: 30 Poems