huck

Christmas Eve

By these lights, which are doubling
for snow and carol singers,
the eyes of a ten-year-old boy
look like coals kept at bay
below the cool and lucid brow.
His heart - full to the brim - broils.

The shop's PA system tells us again
how it wishes it could be Christmas
every day, and I laugh a little
nervously as shades of red evoke
a mock eternity. "This is torture,"
says a customer.

Outside on the pavement,
the decrepit son of god is slipping
unbidden fruit into our pockets.
He thinks I haven't noticed
how the fingers of his other hand
are crossed.