Christmas Eve

Every road is a sheet of ice
Treacherous to all kinds of shoe,
Flicking through poets on a bright brittle bus,
Distracting the thinking from you.

Destination: a train station,
Wrapped up in hugs
Of brothers and mothers and lovers,
This day is an evening where loneliness tugs
At a heart hiding under the covers.

Falling in spirals like shivering snow,
The pen scratches jerk with the ride,
Thousands of faces walk Christmas to show,
It matters not how we’re feeling inside.

Fictional endings unfair to the reader
Are twirling by trees decked in light,
Heartbeats are sending cold shocks to a stomach,
Tomorrow did not ask to fight,
And although the quarrel is bright,
I’ll let Christmas cuddle me tight.