Merry Christmas To All

The tinfoil star appointed

to the top of the garbage

pile tree. Placed there by

dirty fingered hands, below

gnarled knuckles in natty finger-less

gloves.

The star, folded neatly,

with precision, glittering

from the passing headlights

of cars speeding past.

Holding sway over the souls

to pass its way.

An underpass Christmas,

a birthday for Jesus,

amid the squalid refuse

of more affluent Holiday

celebrations.

A can of cranberries for

a Christmas feast.

The underpass residents,

gathering ‘round the steel

garbage barrel, a sight rarely seen,

to warm themselves by the garbage

fueled fire, the crackling of

wrapping paper burning fills the night air.

Here’s Crazy Jerry, the Vietnam Vet,

he’s found some red wine, but he’s

not sharing, and that’s okay, since

he’s off the opioids. It’s a miracle

he’s made it to this Christmas at all.

He’s smiling for once.

Cat Woman Wanda, she’s made it

to, with three of her four little kittens,

she said one didn’t make it, hit by a car,

that didn’t even stop. She scratches at the

claw marks across her cheek. It looks

infected, but she says it’s fine.

The garbage pile tree, anemic and thin,

looks dressed up with its tinfoil star, 

a burrito wrapper made beautiful by Frank

the Beard, who said in a past life he was somebody

with a big house and fine cars, but lost it all

to booze and women. But he could craft.

Christmas Night, silently surrounding this small

band of humanity, as they shuffled

for warmth around the burning barrel,

they each took a mouthful of the cranberries,

and passed it to the next, sharing with each

other this thing called charity.

On Christmas Day, they will be gone,

each to their own paths, lost in memories,

destinies, and the next moment of momentary

warmth. Their story is the story of all

Christmases. Christmas is for them.

And a battered tinfoil burrito wrapper,

made into a star.