Dirty Snow

A poem by Tom Hunter

Christmas comes and Christmas goes, 

Boxes stuffed with toys and clothes, 

Festive lights shine on streets, in shops, 

Wreaths and bells make windows “pop”! 

Dining platters with all the fixings, 

Dressed up guests enjoy the mixings, 

Carols blast, they’re all the rage, 

Jingling bells from screen to stage! 

Smiles abound - no frowns allowed! 

Shout “Merry Christmas” and shout it loud! 

This side of town has it all, I’d say… 

 But it’s dark, and silent, across the way. 

As I hurried along, fleeting thoughts of them, 

A passing glimpse or two of a Yuletide grim, 

They’re on the own; they’ll be better for it, 

Not my concern, I’ll just ignore it. 

Still, no ribbons brighten up those streets,  

It’s a place where ends can’t seem to meet, 

And it’s hard to hear singers on caroling prowls, 

When drowned out by empty stomach growls. 

Holidays there are an empty dream, 

When a paycheck’s rare and, then, too lean, 

And poor holly is just another shrub, 

When you have no hope, therein lies the rub. 

These things I knew - I’ve always known, 

Misery loves company and hates being alone, 

But we all have someone we can count on, right? 

I’ve got to hurry, it’s Holy Night! 

My brood, my family, my friends, my folks, 

My time, my fireplace, my “poor dad” jokes, 

The smiles, a feast, just a perfect day, 

Just a few short steps and minutes away. 

Then, beyond the lights that this side sought, 

Where nothing changes and no gifts are bought, 

Where darkness swallows up warmth and glow, 

Sat a shivering child in dirty snow. 

I almost didn’t see her there, 

With eyes adjusting from the glare, 

The “season” almost dragged me past her, 

But I squinted hard and my heart beat faster. 

My list, too long, snow began to fall, 

A deal’s in the balance of another call, 

In a few short minutes, the gift shop closes, 

And I still must get a dozen roses! 

Two sunken eyes from across the tracks, 

Her life, and light, between the cracks. 

Hors d’oeuvres or cake or purple punch? 

I bet she rarely had a crust for lunch. 

She had no toy, her face gaunt and blank, 

Her shelter likely cold, dark and dank, 

Her holey clothes weren’t “gay apparel,” 

She’s a stray, I thought, unkempt and feral. 

I turned away for a moment, briefly, 

Isn’t Christmas about my happiness, chiefly? 

If I stop for her now, it’ll spell disaster! 

But, in a whisper, I thought I heard the Master. 

She’s a child of God, I knew… I sighed, 

She was one of those for whom Christ died, 

The Spirit drove a stake right through my heart, 

Impaled, convicted to play my small part. 

Could I really bring joy to one bereft? 

A helping hand to one that others left? 

So many raced by her in single file, 

But a part of me longed just to see her smile. 

Well, 

My party and business would have to wait, 

(I would say a client made me late), 

I trudged a path against the flow, 

To clean up a patch of dirty snow.