Canary Christmas

In the building that was once a landmark, there is no one to mark it. A door yields to the ever incessant attempts to get out or in. It is the same either side: there is no one there.

Except a canary. That flies from shelf to shelf, from the trading room to the accounts department; leaving a self-perpetuating trail of shit. It was ever thus.

But there is a light at the top of the tower. At the top of the pointy tower. There in the distance is a cloud of canaries. A blush of yellow. It is the early engagement of migration. The beginning of new ventures.

In the meantime, the same old canary is stuck in the same old building not knowing where to go. Until a lone security guard comes in and shoots it...some habits never die.

Take the cup

Take the cup

Hold the cup

Drink from the cup:

 

it is cold

and clear.

 

Will it do any good?

Will it channel it's path?

Grind a way unseen.

 

Or will it merely be

some slake to the dry

a mercury dewdrop?

 

Pass me the stick

Come on, pass me the stick.

 

I can't go without it now

even though there is nothing

there.

 

Nothing.

Not an echo when you shout.

A bunch of sticks to rattle.

 

Rattle! Rattle!

Anyone there?

 

Or do I hear a baby cry?

 

Hello. Hello.

 

Can you hear me?

 

I'll take this cup.

 

This empty cup.

And fill it up.

 

Here:

Take the cup.

Hold the cup.

Drink from the cup:

 

there, that's better.

 

Home at last!