Yule

The statue of a leader
we slept through is made of copper
at the center of an intersection
down town where everyone
has shopping bags.
The black chain on the incline
serves as a rail for people heading
those directions, up or down,
and all the parking crowds
the roadsides so those left
sneaking through have to be careful
not to sideswipe some suburban
fucking everything for everyone.

Just five months ago this all was left
in chaos while those now at home
or locked away stormed out and
and made it known just how broken
this old city really was.
They put the shattered glass back
thicker and you couldn’t walk
from one store to the next without
a uniform of some sort in the way.
The mayor still shows up on time
passing over the bright lights
under the bridges leading in
to light the tree again
pretending to believe
in something holy.

The cheap ink rubs off the cookie
tins held tightly under bundled arms
seeking a fireplace at any cost
even if it’s only on the television.