holy night in poetry

the inflatable Santas are out
on the porch-fronts of Route Five-South
the Christmas cock-measuring contest
has begun the begin
they’re hanging up icicle lights
they’re blaring out with Silent Night
it’s a proxy war for hearts and minds
of commerce in the name of Jesus Christ
that only the electric company wins
blinding as you cross the bridge
into honkey-tonk nowhere
in LEDs tinsel and mohair
burning your eyes like a roadflare
ice glazed and glass glare

Christmastime in middle America
is a gaudy hundred watt light bulb
swinging in a back-porch mud room
and we are the moths
everyone thinks moths are drawn to the light
but that’s simply not true
the light does not draw them
it makes them confused
it throws off their compass
they’re floating all loose
they are dazzled by the glimmer and gloss
they are lost
they’re not flying toward anything
they just happen to hit the bulb

we are not flying toward Christmas lights
not on the road toward Herkimer
not this cold November night
we are flash-blinded
and flying
into them at random