The Christmas Party
Church bells of Boystown ring out like an angry mother
Dangling off the edge of the fire escape with full winter coats puffed out
Falling deep into a jar of maraschino cherries
Something with rhythm on the radio, but not polka
Slipping down the halls, the restless heel
The kids table is
Off these ash and creme-soaked walls
Only to be plucked into an ashtray
To drive out the cold
Stained carpet and a bruised ego like bloody socks
Tossed on the white elephant table
Slipping down the halls, the restless heel
Cut down in its youth to the root of it all
Close the curtains when the sun comes out
Prayer mimics begging when
Delivered with authority
"Close your eyes and you'll burst into flames"
Even in the mishearing
The sound of the everyday
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