is short and stout
(the kids in the neighborhood
  call him "roly-poly"
  but not to his face)

he's somewhere in his late seventies
cloaked in a dark green l.l.bean hooded coat
sizes too small on him
and he's shoveling snow
when he suddenly falls down
topples really
in the gathered snow
a small heap of flesh
buried slightly
where the driveway slopes down a bit

after a short time
a few neighbors run over to the site
and turn him over
one of them checks his pulse
the crowd thickens
someone cellphones 9-1-1
and then
ever
so
slowly
the man opens his eyes
starts to smile
his head turns
to look at his nameless neighbor
across the street
a neighbor framed in a window
he's a kitchen poet in fact
who stares right back at the forlorn sight

mister roly-poly's wife
runs out of her home
in a skimpy blue housedress
her damp blonde hair wrapped in curlers
she looks very angry
yelling at him
calling him "a spectacle...
a drunken *******" to be exact

in the meantime their two labradors
who've been watching the drama
from a  bay window seat inside
charge out of the house
and the wife yells  "no! no! no!"
the man sits up for a moment
the whimpering dogs run to him
they start to lick his face
and the man tries to get up
then an ambulance
races up the street
skidding on the icy patches
the siren screeching insanely
in the frigid air
the wife keeps yelling "no! no! no!"
the dogs keep licking
and all the 9-1-1 people
rush out of the vehicle
and everything looks just like a scene
from a marx brothers feature
but no one's yelling "CUT!"