Metro stop. July. Sun, hot,
high — a noise behind —
rest-home lawn, some old guy,
wheel-chaired, waves at me.
I wander over, give him five.
Holiday’s complete, he says,
now you’ve come home.
Mom’s shopping, back soon
with pies, tree, presents, lights.
My bus arrives, I search my pack,
find a gift — turkey sandwich,
wrapped in white, no ribbon,
no bow. He smiles. I lean close,
hum a few bars of Silent Night.
|