THE WORST-DRESSED HELLO


The prize for the worst-dressed hello
was shared this year by two unknowns.
Our lives grow tall, like falling snow.

Out on the town sad hopefuls go
with MP3s and 3G phones,
but ours is the worst-dressed hello,

in slacks and sandals, twelve below,
while out of drifts poke mammoths’ bones.
Our lives grow tall, like falling snow,

lowering the moon and mistletoe,
plump partridges brought down with stones,
the prize for the worst-dressed hello.

Our courtship, large on video,
nauseates those countless clones
whose lives run small, like fallen snow

in a blizzard round the patio
heater. They’re miffed we won it once,
the prize for the worst-dressed hello.
Our lives grow tall, like falling snow.