Christmas Carols

You walk in the bar,
opening the closing the door behind you,
bringing a momentary melody of Christmas
carols before it got lost in the
hoots and shouts of the bar.
Your hair sporting snowflakes
that look better than
shining bells on any of these
murdered Christmas trees.
I offer you an Old Fashioned and you let
out a smile with a barely audible thank you.
I swear I could read those
pretty lips more accurately than
I could hear the choir singing carols outside.
I hate my mother’s cake, you blurt
out after the first drink before I
could ask what you are doing
in this shady bar on Christmas eve.
I feel you could read my vulnerable, naked
and embarrassed mind and the only thing
I thought about since you brought the Christmas
inside this lonely bar was you.
I ask you for a dance and we dance
over the country music like
teenage kids on prom night,
awkward steps;
wrong movements;
shy hands;
biting lips;
shooting desires.
We’re closing, the barman announces,
before we could finish our dance
so we take a bottle home,
pouring red wine over snowmen and
calling it cold-blooded murder.
You mellow down over the wine and
light up Camels after Camels,
and I play country songs on a rundown stereo.
You take off my shirt and I
unbutton your jeans,
you kiss me and breathe down
Bob Dylan songs on my neck
and I draw constellations
behind your pale, cold, bare back.
Don’t take your eyes off me, you say
as we make love and let out faint
sounds they call moans.
I should go home, it’s Christmas eve,
you say while dressing up.
I thought you hated your mother’s cake,
I say and help you with your overcoat.
You open the door slow and
close it too fast.
The snow stops to fall,
the choirs go mute,
Dylan cease to exist,
Dunhills don’t light up and
festivities aren’t necessities anymore.
You brought in Christmas
when you opened that
door of the bar and
took it away while closing mine.
Guess you owe me a Christmas now
and I owe you an unfinished dance.


Photo by Simon Matzinger from Pexels

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