Summer hymn
by Timothy Pilgrim



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.






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