Poetry breathes before all things turn ice

Seventeen and clerk ,on work to support a sister who had embraced her electricity. He is the one whose elbow gently nudges now to a park bench for old men’s sitting, A nephew lightly less old, kid at his elbow.

Now eighty and two uncle stares at night as nephew stares lightly at his own night. (Take care from falling and nightly bumps like your sister had before she hit the ice) .Sister was mother to this slightly old man and awaiting his ice to hit , nice and cold,nephew and breathing, in a jab at poems. Poetry breathes before nephew turns ice, like all things breath before they turn ice.