(poetry diary 127) decent poem for the craziness of this prep-day, as we “push tables together. /No demand for a star for a while,/ but a sort of good will touched with grace.”
December 24, 1971
When it’s Christmas we’re all of us magi.
At the grocers’ all slipping and pushing.
Where a tin of halvah, coffee-flavored,
is the cause of a human assault-wave
by a crowd heavy-laden with parcels:
each one his own king, his own camel.