Poet, Christmas Eve,1986

He hears incessant jingling in his ear, but, no, not at the start of some new madness. Something nears over valleys in the mattress, and then lands on rim of his warm beer. All night it's haunted him like lingering fear, like flaming tinsel, or Santa Claus's sadness when he learns that the blonde and blue-eyed waitress keeps him like a spare, hung and near. He's taught her English, given her French love, down on his knees. He's kept her warm and wet, met the needs that "other" could not meet. His pockets empty, eyes touched by the dove, snow melting on the shoulders she won't wed, the poet weeps and marvels at the feet.