Blond frame bent on a bench inside the small glass house
as the scent of a hurt pine blows behind the winter hunt.
It lingers, I think, from the outdoor pen that held fresh Xmas
trees in rows; but distracted I dismiss the pine scented air.
I am in the cold light of the streetlamp and she my shadow,
but I hear her pouring out her pain there as if closeted; Or
as if I, too, might melt into thin air; Melt, or consistently
care how far north the bus is, rather than how close her wails,
as we find what’s really far and in the shortest supply
only two days since Christmas, is joy:-
Joy & superpowers I’ve wanted forever; but which are
neither in the light sabres I could score from the tall brunette’s boys,
nor in any word of comfort I offer through the blowing snow
to a sad eastbound lass whom I do not know. To her nonetheless
I send — red ribbon and bow bound — boxes of goodwill
hoping good tidings remain in season and, will reach her still.