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manger has been replaced
by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
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment