The train squeezed listless along the platform,
as if a game for happy children:
their January holiday,
with a completed list of gifts –
the sane apathy of parents reluctant to question superstitions.
The train – a figure of shady authority
puffed towards the winter shelter
where grain is stored for hungry throats
where chickens are cuddled to sleep before
they are taken to our feast table,
realistically rising to the occasion –
the gravity of holiday matters.
(c) 2018, mk
This is my weekly wordle poem in answer to Sunday Whirl #334.
