Watching every morsel disappear into smiling faces
he sits in the cold damp air outside the window as he
has done every year.
Seeing wonders he can only dream of, what kind of
spell has been cast on these people to reap such prosperity.
Food and wine, a tree, decorations with unequal color.
Kings and Queens, royalty surely.
Youthful enthusiasm run to their gifts with open arms.
Paper is torn to increase delight.
A feminine form enters, with food adorning a mammoth
silver tray. Plum pudding perhaps with custard or sweets.
Man, Woman and child surround the enticing offering.
Prayers offered in thanks.
Beyond this image of perfection, beyond the frosted pane.
He pulls himself away from this mirage of splendor.
In the company of a darkened back street.
He sleeps beneath some fresh paper, from a cardboard box
a last minute shopper has left in haste.
With eyes moist by the lingering dream of wine and cheer.
The jingle of the tin cup awakens him, drawing him to
the only family he will ever know.
His Brothers and Sisters of the street, and the army of God that
for a moment, make him feel like those blessed in the window.
(To everyone at Christmas time, lets take a moment to give thanks
for the country we live in and the fortune we have.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.