Rapid Approaches The Holiday.

 

Rapid Approaches The Holiday

©-MFB III 

hear the rapid.... rapidly approaching
metal screams on bitter frozen rails
bodies shuffle and bump
fifty en masse thru one tiny door
all seats are festival
first come less swerved
all goes by in a blur
thousands of brightly
tiny colored lights
dot the night sky
huge homes full of warmth
and holiday cheer
so much so... that it exudes outside
in expensive displays
of non-chutzpah
while in the depths of
the projects a single
electric candle lights an unshaded room
the streets empty of all but the gloom
three days before Christmas
it would be here that the Christ child
would bed if it was his time to come tonight
in a humble hovel east of luxury
gospel notes transcending above
his angelic face on the army cot manger
in a shelter of homeless and destitiute
he would bring warmth and eternal hope
the wealthy would traipse for miles
to get a glimpse... bearing gifts of gold
and tokens of their 10 percent tithes
to this holy gift from above
but it would be the smile of a hungry child
seeing the answer to his fears that
would outshine all the 14 karat insincerity
around me I see so many travelers
people on the train all looking down
as if the answers to life lay
on the dirt stained floor of this car
some stare into the night like me
past the reflection of another
years worth of age in the dusty window
wondering at the lives that go on
in the windows that flit by
in the many hundreds of houses
is there joy in those rooms of souls
or sorrow that makes holidays seem futile
another rapid passes by to our left
faces loooking briefly at
other faces looking briefly
at people going by in opposite directions
and yet all on the same path
the buildings of the city stand like
collossal tombstones to the memories
we all had as children coming downtown
to see Santa and ice skate
and eat sweet gumdrops and sugary treats
then reminiscings rudely interrupted as
the train lurches to a stop
bodies swaying like mechanical dancers
on a rickety windup toy
till the bent and old hobble off first
followed by the younger but disillussioned
tiny children in tow
wondering at this night journey
following dutifully in the footsteps
of their father and mother's yesteryears
the train pulls away empty
disgorged of it's fleshy burden
turning around to bring more back to warm homes
and semi-heated hovels
picking up the castaways of life
in a winter's December storm
and dropping them closer to what's familiar
for a small fee and a forced smile
"Happy holidays"... the driver mumbles
as he faces seven more hours
of going over and over the same tracks
that never lead him further then retirement
and a recliner that feels like it's moving
I dissappear in a flurry of snow
swallowed up by revolving doors
that lead to a better understanding
of the hurry of the season
and a rapid dissapation of
another year gone by
eleven bags later tired feet
climb slowly up into the rapid
and collapse on a bench well worn
as the train heads across the
icy trails of rails upon which we are
transported back to our most
familiar place that we call home.

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