2043. CHRISTMAS NIGHT

CHRISTMAS NIGHT
And what shall they bring me? A last
night of life? Or a year filled with strife?
The candles somehow burn beneath the
city tree without really burning a thing
I see; the mettlesome mettle of mettle,
hard like some wiry politician's words
skimming for a vote - hands out, with
holes in them, sharkskin suits, only
worn by sharks. And how these
plebeians still believe all these things:
That a baby was born and that angels
did sing. Rubbish like that has no
handholds on either a stairway
to Heaven...or to Hell.
-
Now, as I watch, at another table the
workmen are sitting about, talking of
their tools awhile while on break.
It is still a Christmas week day.
They talk of how this shaft blows
upward while that one powers down,
reciprocation, the hammer, the spike,
the force with the pneumatic sound.
-
And, altogether, we know no things :
just the idle curiosity of talk. And,
somehow too, this new-born salvation
never falters, just rings. I hear that
tapping at my ears, I feel the ringing
that I hear. It is another Christmas Day.