Hobos in holey coats
Would stand around the oil drums fires
At Santaland, sometimes sharing a thermos
Of Christmas cheer and off-key caroling
Of “Joy to the World”
After all the children had gone home,
Until the city put up a high fence
Around the seasonal attraction,
Where a tollbooth with a charge
Enjoys very few visitors.
But no hobos bother those deserted fires.
Now the homeless descend on parking lots downtown,
Hugging the hoods of parked cars,
Spreading arms over the still-warm engines
As an angel would extend her wings before ascending
Into the clear, holy night.
