Hobo Autumn hoists his bindle,
hitchhikes out to another year, a warmer clime,
hoping to catch up with Spring—
then Winter arrives, demanding entrance,
banging at the door with cold fists as if he lives here,
doffing his hat to show where he keeps long nights—
when he opens his suitcase in the dank hallway,
darkness spills onto the floor,
a few icy stars roll across the rug—
he hands out freezing rain as if it were candy,
and from his frozen pockets he draws forth
a penny-whistle for the children,
upon which he blows a chill wind.
We give the old miser the extra room,
the one with the leaky window
where the draft comes in,
counting the days until he moves on.

— Jack Peachum