Scrooge's Great, Great GrandsonIt's Christmas eve, and, wonder of wonders,
I feel no tingle of joy in me. The sky is gray.
The air is cold. The monochrome lights
Of the dismal denizens of the suburb across
The street twinkle pathos with darkness gone.
The throngs of desperate shoppers, as yet,
Haven't finished their breakfasts and left
Their homes. The streets are empty.
No savior is nigh. One dark-hearted
Gentleman stands at his window, needing
No god to bid him rest. I turn from
The window to stare at the tree and its
Modest pile of gift-wrapped presents.
Goody; it's Christmas eve.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 92 times
Written on 2018-12-24 at 15:16
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