Monday, January 3, 2011

December 25 poem

is not so different
than any other day
cars race by
like a sigh
and the corner store
is open
twenty four seven
i pass
is mottled and grey
and the air
so cold
it pleads for snow
that won’t fall
apart from
certain ornamentation
you would not know
this is christmas
a strand of lights
an evergreen wreath
and people calling
ho ho ho
as they cross thresholds
with presents
it all seems
somehow ordinary
somewhere i suspect
is christmas
as big
and bold
as I see
every year
on TV
behind dark windows
or in passing cars
it is something close
a vague sensation
like nostalgia
or a hope
for something better
but not here
or now
it doesn’t meet me
on oxford
or allan
or anyone
i pass
all the weeks
of anticipation
pass peacefully
like a song
you hear
at night
in bed
drifting in
from the stereo
in your parents’ living room
you close your eyes
and it is gone
this brief respite
we call christmas
soon hidden away
in basements
and attics
to open
some other day
and i
keep looking for it
but in me.

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