When it gets cold the old bundle up with moth-bitten velveteen,
rich and ancient adolescent dreams dressed up in some fine threads
all fidgety in the backseat down some roughly paved side street
to pick up a date who may never again appear this lovely.
It’s a warm dream, despite the falling snow, even though we know
all of what we all know, that neither the date, nor our hero
ever engaged in some scene such as this or some scene close,
but memory will keep it sweet, and keep us from getting old.