Christians sure love babies,
And hay,
Lots of high barren windows overlooking a bare plain
And eventually,
a tiny crossroad cave.
Fat Dutch stars, candy swirling the dark dark.
Every sixteenth hour carols
Go off in the tower
Of the church next door.
Thick boom sound boom,
ear peeling volume,
the entire living room is filled with message, hope
and love.
And the neighborhood becomes a New England postage stamp:
Old ones sit on cold porches with sweaters
And sweater dogs,
Children go pop up in the trampoline
Of course people have complained,
And I suppose they can complain
If that's what's wrong with them.
Night falls Devine.
Solstice is a short man at the top of the drive,
He'll bring bathtub wine,
A sour disposition,
Before falling back into the jackal head crowd:
Those that hurry up and want it all to be over with
Babies, holidays, and of course cold days, raw feet
And everything to do with someone's idea of peace.
