Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve

They've come through another rubbish day
    fitted like files in cabinets
    of standard dimensions:
nameplate at their workstation,
    extension in
    the Division's phonebook.

After lunch, turning a page in life's diary,
    afternoon goes by:
    phones ring, birds fly to skies'
    end, and back again.


Each moment not a moment too soon,
    neon lights the journey home:
    clouds, a dark blessing, move
    imperceptibly northwards.

Cat waiting on the bottom step,
    TV silent, radio on, no
    cards to open: meal over,
    dark closes curtains, each
    moment a moment gone.


Caught at sleep's border,
    fear holds them awake: what's
    that, a knock on the back door,

Shall a psychotic Santa Claus
    wobble down the chimney,
    gather up most loved things,
exit with his knobbly sack -
    'ho, ho, ho' without a word, don't
    even think of following him.


{Perhaps for those short on Christmas cards}


◄ Delirium in winter: the destination of snow


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