Head down, umbrella up, boots on my feet,
I walk between puddles as deep as seas
And weave like speeding taxis in the street
Past the pale carcasses of Christmas trees.
If they could speak, then I would hear them beg
For tinsel, like the homeless beg for change—
Their naked branches tugging at my leg,
Your leg—anyone who’s within their range.
Like soldiers who fought in a war we lost,
They are what no one now wants to remember—
The hope, the disappointment, the high cost—
For January must forget December
And walk head down into an unknown year
That always turns its back on Christmas cheer.
Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells