CHRISTMASTIME AT SUNSHINE NURSING HOME

"I think they come at eight,"
Liz tells me, doling out my pills
like Mama used to hand me coins
for Sunday school, then knot them
in the corner of a hanky
to fold around my fist.

"Who's going to come?" I ask.
I think she knows I know,
knows I ask it just to keep her
in the room to talk some time away.
With Meg, across the hall,
she lingers long and chats.
I'm not like Luke says Mary was.
She kept it -- what the shepherds said
and all -- and "pondered in her heart."
I'm sick to death of that.
Pondering, I mean.
Bedfast with my busted hip,
a scrawny, clipped-wing bird,
I'd rather talk than ponder, that's for sure!

"The kids -- the carolers," says Liz.
"From Prince of Peace in town."

They come each year and crowd
inside the entranceway to sing,
huddled like a herd of frightened fawns.
Their cheeks burn rouge-red from the cold.
"So young and angel-faced," Meg will say again.
"They sing so sweet."

I'll only hear, not see, this year.
Unless ...
Once, I think, they sang
and then walked through the halls.
Some stuck their heads in doors,
said "merry Christmas" and "God bless."

I hope they will again this time.
I'll have a question for them,
maybe more than one.
"What grade are you in school?" I'll ask.
"Tell me who you are, tell me what you dream,
where you want to go, what you hope to be."
And one of them will come and sit
and talk awhile and maybe hold my hand.
And be for me an angel of the Lord
with tidings of great joy.