He sat, dark, on low stone steps;

buried in black shadow, unmoving.

Only his staring, blank eyes

gathered light thrown by

glinting, gaudy gifts.

 

The blare of music did not jar his ears.

He was as a “black hole” on a step

in a market full of noise and laughter;

soaking up what was not his world

or ever would be.

 

Bleak, black Christmas.

 

 

David Garlick, Puebla, December 1997