A Season of Temptation

Bluegrass on the radio, with a smattering of John Prine.
Sun in the windows. A plate of slightly burnt hash in front of you.
Coffee. Half a dozen patrons looking like hangovers.

It is the weekend after. The beginning of a gallop
from one holiday to another. A season of temptation
to lose what brings you here, the holy, lost in lights,

Lost in a packed calendar. The joy. Not the one in lights,
the one made for your heart and so often buried
in noise.

About this poem

Sitting in the last diner standing. Mutterings around me about how short a time till Christmas. I am not against the shopping of the season. Not at all. Unless it robs us of the joy the season is made for.

The picture is (legal) stock photography.

Tom