Reach out and up to the sliver of moon in the new sky and discover that instead of the expected soft silk of light it clings to your hand like glue that does not come off no matter how hard you try and then, shout out loud over the bog and the frozen cobwebs and protest. And nobody hears you because they are all inside, within their warm walls, watching their giant television screens where chefs instruct them on how to make the perfect mince pies and smoked salmon canapes and commercials transport visions of people looking incredibly happy as this jolly season takes off. Not one channel shows the man on the street. The one I saw today as he walked through the drug store because it was warm. His jacket was thin as wisps of grass on the winter meadow and his face held sheafs of hay and he was invisible as a ghost until his elbow brushed against mine in the throng and he said,
'''that's okay, no problem,''
and we both went our separate way as the security guard followed him on his path and I could not help but think of him as I drove home, as I reached for the moon and it clung to my hands like dough gone bad and nobody else saw anything because the blue tv light dazzled their vision. The curtains drawn. The world irrelevant.