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 

Bouncing 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