Come Winter

Charles Simic

The mad and homeless take shelter
Against the cold weather
In tombs of the fabulously rich,
Where they huddle in their rags
And make themselves scarce only

When a hearse comes along
Bringing the smell of freshly-cut roses
And a drove of flunkies
With snow on their black shoulders
In a hurry to lower the heavy coffin
So it can go to hell on Satan's luxury


Train where they kick their shoes off,
Gourmandize and sip wines
Even God himself never gets to sip,
As they pass the fires, the chilled crowds
Of the damned lining the tracks,
Straining to catch a glimpse of them.