The dead man steps down from the scaffold.

His corpse is a mangled mess,

an eyeball misplaced there,

a nose there,

a mouth there.

What happened, I cannot say,

but he strolls into town almost casually,

unaware as his tower of sticks falls behind him.

He waves a toothless grin at us

and smiles his eyes wide open.

He goes to play with the children,

who, unbeknownst to him, have already

run away.

He kicks the ball with his fingers

and dribbles it forward with a runny nose.

It’s cold.

Cold much like the wind which passes by

one way

But forgets its way and

comes back but a moment later.