Got a birthday card at Christmas: it made me think of Jesus Christ.
It said, 'I love you' in small letters. I simply had to read it twice.
Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys.
The smell of frost was in the air.
Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasn't there.
People have showered me with presents while their minds
were fixed on other things.
Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and angel wings.
I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of your smile.
Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no style.
That little baby Jesus - he got a birthday card or three.
Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles for his tree.
Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give or take a few.
Hey there, sweet baby Jesus: Let's share a birthday card with you.
Sister Bridget by the stair: a glass of wine and she's almost there.
Cousin Jimmy at the door: another beer and he's on the floor.
Friends and neighbours come around,
waste no time we're heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
Stinky Joe from down the street fell right over his own three feet.
He's doubled up in the outside loo, to taste again the devil's brew.
Friends and neighbours come around,
Waste no time we're heaven-bound.
But not before we raise a glass to good camaraderie.
So make yourselves jolly under mistletoe, holly and ivy.
Get to it – and be in good cheer.
And when it's all over: pigs gone to clover –
will the last man at the party wish me a happy New Year.
The house is jumping, suppers up. Curried goat in a paper cup.
Forks of plastic, knives of tin: who cares what state the goat is in.
Someone with the gift of song
has brought his pal to sing along.
Now they're turning up old Frank Sinatra on the stereo.
I flew in on the evening plane.
Is it such a good idea that I'm here again?
And I could cut my cold breath with a knife
and taste the winter of another life.
A yellow cab from JFK, the long way round.
I didn't mind: it gave me thinking time before I ran aground
on rocky memories and choking tears.
I believe it only rained round here in thirty years.
Now, it's the first snow on Brooklyn and my cold feet are drumming.
You don't see me in the shadows from your cozy window frame.
And last night, who was in your parlour wrapping presents in the late hour
to place upon your pillow as the morning came?
The thin wind stings my face: pull collar up.
I could murder coffee in a grande cup.
No welcome deli. There's no Starbucks here.
A dime for a quick phone call could cost me dear.
And the first snow on Brooklyn paints a Christmas card upon the pavement.
The cab leaves a disappearing trace and then it's gone.
And the snow covers my footprints, deep regrets and heavy heartbeats.
When you wake you'll never see the spot that I was standing on.
Some things are best forgotten: some are better half-remembered.
I just thought that I might be there on your, on your Christmas night.
And the first snow on Brooklyn makes a lonely road to travel – cold crunch steps that echo as the blizzard bites.