Tinkling

clamoring bells

preach from a distant steeple

while far below

I stand, forgotten

a black silhouette

in the pool of a streetlight

I begin shuffling, barely seeing

the streets of whispering

lights, laughing

at the shadows of the evening

the weary remains of a day

spent dodging the zombies

roaming the mall, hungry for deals

while so many in the city go hungry

and I can’t help but wonder if a Merry Christmas

could be more than a living room full of cast off wrapping

and I can’t help but wonder if a Merry Christmas

should be more than a pagent of programs and spending

to celebrate the birthday of a man who was homeless

a Christ who spent his days wandering

as a refugee

a trouble-maker

cast off by his society

much like me