15,541. WHEN THE MERRIMENT TURNS TO MONUMENT

WHEN THE MERRIMENT 

TURNS TO MONUMENT

Mostly now, I live in the past: city streets

and darkened turns, in poorly-lit parks

at evening when the swings are inactive

and the kids are all gone. Junkies and

losers take over. The majority of time

has been theirs anyway. Mothers have

gone home, with their babies and their

carriages, prams and promenades, kids

and all their noise. I rather revel in that

half-light they leave behind.

-

If Jesus had still a 'manger,' I doubt it

would have been here : Nothing trumps

something, and even the angels that

hover now on the evergreen tips and

the tall elms that arc, even they would

have turned away. A lone candle tremors,

like a brand new fire in a Black Forest

wind. When the merriment turns to

monument, I can't go out, and I

can't go in.