anhelo (Advent 1-C)

in the
         chair
   idly leafing through
   one more well-thumbed
            magazine,
      the tube slowly dripping
      that poison which is
         supposed to cure
               him, he quietly
           craves a human
   touch;

at the deli counter,
      the lengthening list
          of this tray,
             that cheese,
      those particular crackers
                 all
   turning her eyes to
             glaze,
        she hungers
               to find the aisle
    stocked with
           solitude;

their slow shuffle
         matching the small
         steps of their children
   as they move along the
      slowly whining conga line
             of fidgeters
         getting closer to
               The Lap,
      the parents whisper a hope
           that this is the
                 year
   we look in the manger
              and see
         the baby
      shawled in innocence,
                   not

a tiny santa.

(c) 2012 Thom M. Shuman