Mirth

The season is
scarves and
wheelie bins full of
kids t-shirts and loose denim
and fabric I won't dig to see.

I drink Colombian coffee on Christmas
We wander cold halls of 
brown ceramics and
bootleg perfumes,
brainrot merchandise.
I wander alleys of future rendition
How we talk, how we walk,
how we could sing.
Cast a sympathetic eye to the 
Christmas hoarders wheelie bin
Trapped in the stall of Perdition

The season is
lights and
music we could sing.
I see you lit by street lights on Christmas
We'll stay on train cars of
silver linings and
stilted rumblings,
silent conversations.

The season is
home soon
and we'll carry it in.
It fits your tarot cards and the perfume
and a little snack and
that's it.
I'll wear my sweater for once on Christmas
It's too warm in the house of
replayed songs and
runaway thoughts,
relentless understandings.