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"To The Snowman" by Tim Moder

Your scuffed, unruly top hat has settled onto an

adequately round head. Your body leans left, but

not that smile. Small steady hands have made you.

One thin tie hangs draped around your whole self.

I gave you a broomstick. Keep us safe behind

you. I give you some fancy dress shoes. Do not

forget us when we forget you, and we will forget

you. Try to entertain us as we entertain you.

At night ice creatures froth at the mouth, their chill

hands reaching clenched through frost windowpanes.

Their poltergeist voices bouncing between shut houses,

half frozen. Safe in my bed I imagine you smiling.

Two men, strangers, in love, surprised themselves by

stopping unexpectedly to pour their hearts out to you.

You are a therapist, a time machine, a carnival midway.

All things considered, you are my favorite Frankenstein.

I saw a rabbit eat your face. At least the part of your face

the squirrels knocked over. I wish that rabbits knew how

to smoke the corn cob pipe that’s fallen off and decorates

the grey shrinking snow. I wish you wind, hypothermia,

frost. You, a rolled white mudpie whose snow patted

middle bends. No spine, red mittens, weary smile beneath

a slowly poured sun. Eager glazed eyes, charcoal nose, a

days delight in flurries. Your form is your undoing.

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