Christmas Palimpsest
Standing at that old machine
steaming skimmed milk for some
shopper done buying or dizzy from it,
the orange of the store lamps
an ember in this vast urbia,
I forced winter/childhood/cinnamon
onto the parking lot, the grey
outside the café windows, the tree
veining the retiring sky.
There are illnesses that cross patch
the brain, so you suddenly smell
fried chicken in the bathroom,
or sugar-free zucchini bread in the
middle of your morning jog to nowhere
(there are no bakeries or newsstands
to spring to for a morning stir
between Little Spring Creek Homes and
Winding Hollow River, a Community),
and in this tidal pool of consumerism
I wouldn’t mind a winter crossfire
a sensorial palimpsest sparking burning
wood, brisk green pine, twinkling
lights, apple/orange/vanilla/nutmeg,
choir hailing upward to Gabriel.
I would rub it into this place
like wax or black pewter patina,
press it into the corners and creases,
over stubborn SALE! SALE! signs,
muffling sharp laughing people and
thumbing out piles of fashion magazines
all along aware that I’m not even a Christian,
not necessarily, but seeing this empty
meeting of duty, blind gifting and
sugar chugging, is apt to trigger
something severe enough to warp the mind,
and onto this grey sticky wall roll
a coat of December detail, spiced
optimism, that’s still little to do with Christ,
but was given to me once under glowing branches
and never fails to wet my face like
staring up at snow.
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