Burn
by R.M. Engelhardt





in the night

december

the cold wind, the frozen

world

stands still

like an abstract

like a painting

without motion.

without sound.

smoke & the harsh light

of streetlamps, reality

dirt white city sidewalks

and the panhandlers

at the bus stop

telling their tale

their stories

to buy another bottle

or another pint.

all fallen, all once born

children

from someplace

somewhere.

who had once believed

who had once had faith

like “you”

the story of mankind

the story of every past

history, and poverty,

promises…and life.

brother sister child mother

ghosts of selves dying beneath

the light. a last dance, a curtin bow

the only time that we see them

in our eyes…

merry christmas

happy new year

nothing has changed

no more is given other

than what is given

like a greeting or like a gift

you are a saint

you have given him a whole dollar

to eat

you have changed

his life completely,

love and sin, drink no more

the gods are all smiling

upon your soul

but the george bailey in

this story has no clarence

and no one gives a damn,

the shelters are all full

and the angels have all ran

far far away

with their wings

to look after

themselves

peace on earth,

good will towards men

their breath,

still hanging upon

the cold wind and

the smoke of their cigarette

and its burn…

do you have a dollar?

a smoke?

can I be you? warm?

heart beating inside

not realizing

that the man under the

jacket’s hood

is “you”

merry christmas.

peace on earth

good will towards men,

good will

towards men.