Bells line the street.
The trees that are
in season for two weeks
fill every shopping mall,
every arcade, every restaurant.
It’s all the same.
They are nothing more than
Incandescent tributes to the time of year
when the meek are lost in a world
of consumerism and egotistic wrath
People pass me on the street
The hear my words but not my message
I do not preach
I do not intrude
I merely ask that they participate
In the joy of the season they so love
My lack of
Jolly lard and a coat covered
In red food colouring
Means that at this time of year,
No one will hear me above the bells.
The child stops, pauses
But the guiding hand of his mother
Leads him on. He was listening –
Listening in vain to my voice
Listening To a broken and cold
“hallelujah”, lost among the bells.
Damn the bells.
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