Good Tidings
Jailbirds
Wards of the state
Who isn’t irate at the system
And does what they have to do
If they can?
Each
Us all
Enslaved
To luck
I am leashed with mittens to my dog
Whom I walk retired in the winter
Park
The young men have chainsaws
Shackled to their bare hands
Cutting back the bush
Elvis sings Blue Christmas to my ears
They
Have the bitter wind
Breaking the tiniest of sticks
Any of us could run free
Fleeting
As it would be
So we obey
Hoping the best for one another
That kind of defiance
That kind of wave
Whatever it takes to survive
Passing by
On Christmas Eve.
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