December at dusk, dinner downed and blessed, I slip on
shoes and sidle down the walk to taut drawn tangles of
cords. Two outlets take
five plugs. Pop. Twinkle lights blaze, early darkness gone
like a genesis word spoken for the kick, but fake—
electric joy and peace and love,
and the soul of man is barely sparked by my small town
deed. Next door inflates snowmen. Their eves glow blue.
A stray cat plays
in empty bushes, pawing green circuits. I wait. No sound.
In brittle oak limbs above, yellow stars are nesting anew—
God’s display.
With chest heaves, a catch, a sudden shake, I
choke down another day. Bless my tomorrow
now today is through.
I will thank You for the present sent. I vow no sorrow,
no sideways looks or rolling eyes or sarcastic words (a few)—all thankful without a sigh.
Michael P. Carriger
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