Tuesday, December 31, 2024

New Year's Serenade

Bethlehem recedes from memory.
The supernova that exploded
above serene nativity silence
has mysteriously disappeared.

Only familiar constellations

now wheel the black savior sky.

The birth of peace and love

on a bed of dry yellow straw

is about to become yesterday’s news.

 

Knees bent in adoration

at hidden midnight mass,

heads tilted upwards in longing

to hear the highest hosanna,

have fled the candlelight,

the holly, the choir, the pews.

 

The manger has been replaced

by a carnival canvas tent,

faded red letters on the smelly dun.

Wild Bob’s Fireworks

is open for a limited run.

 

Cherry bombs, rockets, and red ringers,

supernovas wrapped in plastic,

can be ignited by striking a match

on a streetwalkers sandpaper face.

 

An open bar sits on every corner.

Sparkling wine and bourbon flow into gutters,

the Nile red with a baby’s blood,

the Fertile Crescent just a patch of weeds.

 

The ball drops ten, the ball drops nine.

The crowd in Times Square

freezes like an amoeba caught on a slide,

a cold crazy sea, a screaming mob.

 

The ball drops two, the ball drops one.

Christmas tree lots have disappeared.

The gunpowder revolt has begun.


~William Hammett



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