He thinks the best way
to deal with winter

is simply by staying
alive. It is the same 

as how he puts up
with every day

loss; water a plant, 
feed the distant cat. 

His life is now a play
that people no longer

attend; much like
how the angled 

light gets short
shrift this shortest

day of the year. 
But still he will

follow the walkway
down to the bottom, 

check the empty mailbox
that on the best of days

might be stuffed with circulars
that could fill at least part 

of his afternoon, 
the black ice of his drive 

an overcoat he would
just as soon slip on.