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LONELY CHRISTMAS EVE NIGHT
Seeking solace in a wayside inn
From a cold and miserable storm
Howling in the dregs of December,
I stopped once in a small town
On a lonely Christmas eve . . . .
There was no Madonna and child
Only a jezebel in the next room
Seeking comfort from the cold
Sharing the space and a bottle
With a toothless homeless man
Huddling over crusty bread,
A cylinder of hard salami and
A liter of Thunderbird wine.
No shepherds or wise men
Came bearing ancient gifts of
Gold Frankincense and Myrrh,
Only hard knocks on her door
Throughout the night
The soft echo of sex oozing
Through paper thin walls
The motel vacancy sign
Long quieted before midnight.
No angels singing “Noel”
Announced the glad news of salvation,
Only the faint sounds of
Willie Nelson singing “Blue Christmas,”
There was no star in the east,
Only a single streetlight
Flickering outside my window.
And I surrendering to the surreal sights,
Sounds and smells of abject loneliness . . . .
Seeking comfort in a bottle in a wayside inn.
