in scarves, boots, drinks,
turn around our neighbor's pine
spilling grog into snow,
approaching our porch with
O Come All Ye Faithful.
A few stumble or sing wrong,
open the door, Jim for
let us adore him.
Annual Christian, pipered
by their pied joy, I lean
to follow when they go.
A hand holds me back.
The lead caroler, encountering
our Ford glazed with ice,
undeterred, opens the door
and crawls right through,
knees on the seat, gloves
on the dash and headrest.
The rest follow, pulling
We Saw Three Ships
through the car like a rope.
Soon I am falling asleep
in vast winter bedroom silence,
part of me caroling further
through local traffic,
houses and towns
and lives, and years
and years of night.