Seasonal Diaspora
that magic's bounty just turned the corner.
Every tree snarled in white lights, windows
exultant with merchandise. Then,
here's the African-American couple
you saw in the bookstore an hour ago,
washing and warming up. You won't
help them. It's no mystery. There's a theory
that the hell-bound habits we shelter
grant us condolence through guilt. Imagine
this couple, holed up between dumpsters
in the alley below, and let remorse
cradle you . . . you without courage, you
with the exhausted eyes of prosperity.
Get some sleep. Let wishes ungranted
retreat into the silence of teeth
that chatter six stories beneath
your pillow. You can give no more
haven than this bolt of empathy,
to stalk the rest you've guarded.
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