I Didn't Get Picked

A little while ago I submitted a couple poems to a local publication for possibly being selected to be included in their annual publication. Neither was selected. I'm ok with that, both could use a little work and the submission was a last minute idea. Anyways, I'm putting one of them up here just to fill space (not sure about posting the other one). The following poem was written with an emphasis on imagery more than anything, so hopefully no one takes any moral or political message away from it.
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Last Day Before Winter

The sky is a constant gray.
The trees are all naked
and their leaves have become a brown blanket over the earth
while thousands of bony fingers
point to the sky.
One degree colder and it would snow.
A breeze from the north bites at all exposed skin.

An old man in a dirty green coat
shuffles along an abandoned street
in an avoided part of town.
Hunched over and eyes always on the ground
he knows not where he is going;
he sees only what’s behind him.

The street is almost completely silent
except for the occasional cough from the old man
and the rustling of dead leaves
sent tumbling on the road by the breeze.
They are barely seen out of the corner
of the old man’s eye.

He looks up to find a place to rest.
He has grown tired, so very tired.
A nearby derelict building will suit his needs
and he begins shuffling his way over.
In the distance a raven can be heard.

The windows to the building have all been broken
and a metal mesh fills the holes.
A “private property” sign is posted on the front door
and someone has drawn a penis below it.
Most of the original blue paint has peeled away
revealing the gray stone of the walls beneath it.

The old man finds a spot not completely littered
with broken glass and various types of feces.
He slowly sits himself down and looks across the street
at a building in similar condition.
In truth he is staring into nothing.

The wall provides no comfort for his back.
He tries to adjust himself into an unpainful position
but eventually must give up.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bottle,
something to take the chill from his bones.
He takes a large swallow
and then stares at the sky.

He knows he has no one to blame but himself for this
but still he shakes his fist at the sky
and curses God,
not for his circumstance
but for ever letting him live.
He takes another drink and laughs.

He’s cold and he’s tired and he’s alone
and now he just wants it to end.
With a final glance to Heaven
he confesses his sin and asks forgiveness.
There’s a tear on his cheeks as he closes his eyes
and finally he can rest in peace.