The Triangle Drop-in Centre
The dossers snigger at the untuned trumpet
And the songs they should sing
For this (lottery funded) Christmas supper.
Even the herald angels
Press hands over ears. Like a brickyard
Abandoned in a rush,
Boxes stack and tumble at the foot
Of the invisible. Tree not there,
Tree not reaching heavenheadward,
As the wet snow waits
Outside, writing as it slaps your face
Its true name: cold rain.
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