Father's arms around, he's already reving his feet.
Once let go, he's floored the red oak door
Out to blossoming day, greens, gray and silver cars,
Wind that would toss a tangerine his way up the street,
And a thousand miles behind in uproar.
Well the ice strikes, and here come the knocks
Along one side and the other upon identical doors
And sometimes hailing hands to passing cars,
Or wandering for heat in front of locks,
For greens, for fruit, for substantial what-fors.
As a modern faun, or, alien bright,
Housholds now behold this thing
Much out of reach, and unsituated
Holding heat and fruit night by night
Reduced to a sugary, glowing orange ring.