Frying Pan.

Dear god, the nape of it.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

His oxen senses,
his driving team,

pull him
into the dream of her

but today,
like yesterday,

there will be no lion,
no afternoon nap.

True, her axle neck
barely holds

her head and heart
together.

And listen
to the sound

of her noel voice.
True, her boy shape

is no pear.
In her hand,

there rests
no frying pan.

Nearly all month,
he has been loping

across the room --
ape-living;

here, empty hands
and empty arms

forever hang loose.
Secretly, he hopes

for a strange,
warm winter.

Home is pretty
this time of year.

He loves a pale Leo
in November.

Dear god, the awake of it.

C.A. MacConnell