coffee in the lobby
three flights down. next to me, a fellow sleepwalker
doctors her cup.
‘tis the season. the pulse of jingle bell rock locates me anywhere usa
but my holiday spirit’s gone missing from the carrboro hampton inn.
i can’t find for the life of me find the life of me.
the grace that dogs me
shakes my shoulder. i have a lot of fucking nerve, being morose.
i am reminded the serve-yourself coffee bar is stocked
for all incidental travelers;
when i was seven, my grandmother gave me a fancy french doll, life-size,
that i did nothing to deserve except exist in this world.
“i can’t find for the life of me find the life of me.”
And what of holiday spirits? They come in all sizes, shapes, and colours; surprising us with their sharpness, intensity, and dullness too. Who can survive the holiday season without visiting the ghosts of Christmas past? The longing to hug a sister departed, a parent whose light is no longer shining among us? The lobby of the inn holds them all, each one sidling up for a cup of coffee or tea to crowd the sleepless night. No one can keep up with jingle bell rock for ever, yet many try. Noise wins and suffocates us with its urgency. The young woman cashier at the restaurant yesterday said, "It all went by so quickly, didn't it?" "No," I replied, "just about right." Let's give the French doll a hug. Beautiful.